


Mags' Weapon

by thankyoufinnick (mildred_of_midgard)



Series: Mags-verse [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 65th Hunger Games, 70th Hunger Games, 71st Hunger Games, Agoraphobia, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Chronic Pain, Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Gaslighting, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Substance Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest, Trauma, complex PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:19:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 119,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5209082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildred_of_midgard/pseuds/thankyoufinnick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A District Four-centric look at the decade or so before Katniss. Mags is plotting treason. Finnick is selling his body in the Capitol to get classified information for her. Annie's struggling to build a life with PTSD. Johanna's fighting back every way she can against the world she lives in. And Cashmere is discovering that Career training in District One is geared toward producing Hunger Games victors, not well-adjusted adults.</p><p>(Now with new chapters 4 and 5!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finnick

**Author's Note:**

> This fic ignores _Mockingjay_ altogether, and is thus deliberately somewhat OOC, with the purpose of building up to an AU canon-divergent sequel.

"You're insane." Rudder's voice is flat, unimpressed. He's lean, hard-nosed, and taciturn. His students, who are uniformly in awe of him, call him Hatchet Face behind his back. He won the Forty-Fifth Hunger Games by spearing everything that got in his way, including his own district partner. Now he gives weapon lessons to the District Four Careers.  
  
"Tell me I'm wrong," Finnick challenges. His fists are on his hips, his head is thrown back, and he radiates confidence.  
  
"Even if you get lucky," Rudder insists. "Even if." He pounds the wall of the training room for emphasis. "If every other Career gets taken out, if you take some out yourself, if you survive all the dangers of the arena and no one else does, why would you take this risk now? In five Games you'll be eighteen and unstoppable."  
  
"No one will see it coming. No one will be paying any attention to me at all."  
  
"I thought that was your worst nightmare," Rudder needles, deadpan.  
  
Humor from his mentor is so rare that Finnick doesn't catch it until it's too late. "It's a good tactic. There hasn't been a fourteen-year-old winner in the history of the Games. I'd have the world on a silver platter after that."  
  
"No one will be paying attention to you because it's the stupidest tactic I've ever heard. Get back to your footwork drills, and I don't want to hear any more about it."  
  
Finnick obeys, but not before he lets a broad smile spread across his face. "Oh, but you will."  
  


* * *

  
"Do you know what that crazy boy's after?" Mags says to Rudder during their weekly meeting to go over the trainees' progress. She teaches them strategy.  
  
"Oh, no, he's been talking to you too." Rudder rolls his eyes.  
  
"Same crazy boy?" Mags wonders.  
  
"Only one that crazy. Were you able to shut him down? Because I don't think I was."  
  
Mags gives a noncommittal grunt.  
  
"I think maybe we need to start showing him the most gruesome parts of previous Games. Send him to talk to Octavius," Rudder snorts. Octavius Storm is District Four's most broken victor: still in a wheelchair, raving mad half the time. Being around him gives the trainees the creeps. "Who volunteered at seventeen, I might add. Also the parts where the Gamemakers threw in a wrench that no one could survive except by sheer chance. Combat training is maybe twenty percent of it. It's time he learned that."  
  
Mags is shaking her head vigorously. "Oh, I've been going over every minute of the tapes with Finnick for years. He knows every game by heart. He's talked to Octavius. He's quizzed every victor in Four for every detail they can give until they get sick of it and send him away. And he keeps coming back for more."  
  
Rudder looks impressed and crestfallen at once. "Well, do you have any ideas?"  
  
"Strictly speaking," Mags begins, "we can't stop him from volunteering."  
  
"He doesn't want to volunteer," Rudder reminds her, "he wants to rig the draw."  
  
"If he does, and someone else volunteers, that might solve our problem."  
  
“If,” Rudder says, not optimistic. The Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games have just ended, with both District Four tributes dead again. They were lucky they even managed to get two volunteers this year. The draw for most of the Careers is the food provided at the academy. Come Reaping time, there are always seventeen-year-olds who promise themselves they'll do it next year, and eighteen-year-olds who stand with their heads hanging, unable to muster up the courage. Grateful if someone else does.  
  
Mags doesn’t allow anyone to shame them, so District Four has a reputation of not always being able to muster two volunteers. Their Careers stand in stark contrast to the eagerness in Districts One and Two, where the Games are glorified.  
  
If Finnick talks to the eighteen-year-olds and convinces them that they got free food for several years and don't have to risk their lives in exchange for it, who's going to fight him, really? Out of the current crop, no one looks likely.  
  
Nor is Finnick especially popular with the other trainees. They may enjoy his antics when he’s clowning around, but they don’t enjoy being shown up by someone his age, and Finnick is an incorrigible show-off.  
  
So no. If Finnick rigs the draw, he’s going in. Mags and Rudder both know it.  
  
Rudder continues trying to pressure Finnick out of this move. Every student of Rudder’s that goes through training is one more person in District Four who knows how to use a weapon. Under cover of training Careers for the Hunger Games, Rudder’s building a secret militia for future open resistance to the Capitol. Finnick, with all his potential, is one of the trainees Rudder’s been hoping _doesn’t_ end up in the arena, where the Gamemakers can take you out at will.  
  
Mags has a harder time throwing obstacles in Finnick’s path. Paradoxically, because she has a great deal of influence with him, and she’s always been a demanding taskmaster. But he trusts her only because she’s held nothing back in her support of his goals.  
  
He’s living with her because his parents were opposed to his training to kill other children for glory. In the unrelenting battle of wills, Finnick ran away from home more and more often, until at last Mags caught on and took him in. Unlike the other trainees, whose day ends when they leave the academy, Finnick gets continued intensive training at home.  
  
Mags is convinced that if she withdraws her unconditional support now, she will undermine his preparation but not his determination. If she can't convince him to hold off until he’s eighteen, all she can do is throw all her weight behind him.  
  
Together, they wear Rudder down into accepting Finnick into the advanced weapons class, though he’s neither old enough nor strong enough at thirteen. "I don't care if he goes into the arena at eighteen looking like a god among men," Mags insists. "Someday, somewhere, someone will have the upper hand over him, and he'll have to know how to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. The upper level students are better than he is? Good."  
  
Rudder bows to this logic. By the end of the year, he’s come around to Mags’ approach: doing everything he can to get Finnick ready. On Reaping morning, he announces to Mags, "I'm going with you. Donn is nice and all, but...I'm not nice."  
  
True enough. Rudder's one of the few people who's been able to drive Finnick hard enough to satisfy the boy. Life comes too easily to Finnick, who has a low tolerance for boredom, and he's tremendously ambitious. He was actually visibly happiest when after three hours of school in the morning, followed by six on a boat, and two in training in the evening, he would arrive half-dead with exhaustion on Mags' doorstep in the evening.  
_  
"Rudder gave me that," he said, pointing to a bruise forming by the side of his nose that accompanied flecks of red, "and a bloody nose, but I'm learning. It took him a lot longer this time."  
  
"Cudgels this week?" Mags asked. "Go clean your face and come sit."  
  
Sitting cross-legged on the couch beside Mags, Finnick was quizzed again and again on his reaction to every scenario Mags had seen or could imagine. She didn't let up, even when he started wilting, and he liked it that way. Half the threats to him will come when he's weary from lack of sleep, lack of food, physical effort, or wounds, and he needs to be able to think on his feet in these conditions. He also needs to have internalized a plan for as many situations as possible. It'll keep him from panicking, though he still needs to be adaptable, because neither he nor Mags can possibly __plan for_ _everything.  
  
After years of rejection from his parents, Finnick gradually opened up to affection from Mags. They talked sitting side-by-side, until finally, in the middle of a sentence, Finnick trailed off and slumped against her. He sighed in contentment.  
  
Laughing, Mags put her arms around him. "Come on. You know I can't carry you to bed."  
  
"Mmm."  
  
In a fit of sheer self-indulgence, Mags sat like that for a while, holding her boy while he dozed, until finally she shook him. "Up, up. I'm tired too, you know."  
  
Finnick groaned. "You keep watch, I'm sleeping," he joked, but he got obediently to his feet.  
_  
"Finnick thrives under demanding teachers," Mags agrees. "You'll come, then."  
  


* * *

  
While Finnick is getting a few minutes to say goodbye to people before the train leaves, his parents come to talk to Mags. She's not really surprised. She's had this conversation with them so many times in the last five years that she could have it in her sleep. They're always talking past each other.  
  
Both his parents are tall, but his mother is now hunched over on a pair of crutches, moving with difficulty. Mags digs through her memory for the woman's occupation: loading and unloading cargo. No surprise her injury, then. It's a very accident-prone job.  
  
“Well, if he dies,” his father opens, “I hope you're happy.”  
  
It almost sounds like they know Finnick rigged the draw, but even if they do, she can't publicly acknowledge it. Officially, he was reaped.  
  
“I could say the same to you,” Mags retorts. “Nothing either of you did kept him from being reaped, but I gave him the tools to survive. If he comes home, it will be thanks to me, not you.”  
  
“And you think the ones with the tools for killing innocent children are the ones who deserve to live, just because they come from your district.”  
  
Mags can't help being condescending in her frustration. “You know, it's great that you have strong feelings, but I don't think they're very practical. The Hunger Games don't go away because you shove your head in the sand.”  
  
“All you Careers are doing is escalating the Hunger Games with your academies,” Finnick's mother insists. “Who puts out the most victors? District Two, and to guarantee a victory, they're training the bloodthirstiest tributes out there. Eating children, ripping out throats with their teeth, torturing before they kill and laughing while they do it...”  
  
“One tribute out of twenty-four comes out. Nothing I do can affect that. By sending Careers in,” Mags begins her familiar defense, “our tributes by and large get to live until they're eighteen; they're less frightened in the arena; and the children who really, really, _really_ don't want to be there are spared, so long as we can muster up a volunteer. I'm sorry Finnick's fourteen and we couldn't get a volunteer, but this is out of my hands. I still have hope for him. He may yet come home.”  
  
This is not just what she tells herself at night when she's trying to justify training children to kill, or dragging the unwilling victims of a Reaping into the arena. It's part of the official line for why training should be permitted to continue. It's frustrating that Finnick's parents, with all their burning desire to oppose the Capitol, don't at all see the potential for training the citizens of Four to fight. But if it were obvious to them that a militia is in the making, it would be obvious to everyone, and the academy would be shut down in a heartbeat.  
  
“If he comes back,” his father says with a chill in his voice, “it will be as a killer, and I will have no hope. He's yours.” With that parting shot, his parents leave.  
  
The worst of it is, Mags doesn't even think they're pacifists. She thinks they'd be in the front lines if it came to open warfare. They're just opposed on principle to having anything to do with the government, and fighting back under cover of cooperating is either not something that would occur to them, or something they consider beneath them.  
  
Either way, they're right about one thing. Finnick is hers.  
  


* * *

  
" _Three_ of you," Livia observes challengingly when the train departs the station. She's a tall, big-boned girl, standing with her hands on her hips as she surveys the inhabitants of the compartment: Mags, Donn, and Rudder as mentors; Finnick, the male tribute; and Candy, their Capitol escort. Livia radiates antagonism. "I see."  
  
"Well, yes!" Candy chirps. "The more the merrier."  
  
Candy may be missing the byplay, but Mags, who's been swallowing guilt and fear since the Reaping, catches Livia's meaning immediately. Three mentors is definitely not District Four's usual operating procedure. The rules for victors are twofold: all victors must come to the Capitol at least once per year in conjunction with an event related to the Hunger Games, and tributes must have at least one male and female mentor if their district can produce them.  
  
Districts with an abundance of victors, however, needn’t overwhelm their tributes with ten or twenty mentors. In District Four, Mags and Donn are the oldest victors, and they act as mentors nearly every year. Rudder, Octavius, and Brine, the other three surviving victors, come to the Capitol on their own, usually to the Victory Ball.  
  
Livia, knowing all this, is glaring at Mags. Mags is used to being held responsible by all of her tributes for everything they don't like, and she meets her charge's eyes steadily. "You're in good hands."  
  
"Oh," Livia says, extremely skeptical. "That's good to know. I'd hate to think I wasn't." Livia looks around at everyone individually and deliberately goes to sit beside Donn.  
  
Paradoxically, Mags is reassured by Livia's suspicion and ability to assess who her allies are. She's going to need it in the arena.  
  
"I'm beginning to regret volunteering," Livia mutters, just loud enough to be heard clearly. She sounds more resentful than afraid.  
  
"Funny, I don't remember volunteering," is Finnick's contribution. Belying his words, he directs a sharp and bright smile at Livia, daring her to take her anger out on him.  
  
She narrows her eyes at him, but there's no good comeback to a Career who's being sent to the arena prematurely. She sinks back into the couch, folds her arms across her chest, and stares out the window. The wheels turning in her head are almost visible.  
  
Mags watches her tributes' dynamics, making her own calculations. Her hopes of teaming them up are rapidly dying. Livia's convinced her mentors are determined to keep their favorite alive at all costs, and Finnick's returning her distrust, not letting on to her that he rigged the draw to get here.  
  
Later on, after Mags and Donn have encouraged the tributes to retire to their separate compartments, always their practice in case the children want to fall apart in private, the mentors talk strategy in low voices. Candy, excluded, wanders off in search of better entertainment.  
  
As always, everyone defers to Mags to open the discussion.  
  
"Donn, you're in charge of Livia. Squire her around the facilities, give her whatever advice she'll listen to, get her as many sponsors as you can, send her gifts in the arena."  
  
Donn, a grizzled, comfortable-looking man with a large belly, is surprised. "Usually, you handle the female tributes once we get to the Capitol." He looks over at silent Rudder, unsure where he fits in. Donn's not privy to Finnick's scheme, and so Rudder's presence is inexplicable.  
  
"Livia no longer trusts me." Mags is trying to stay as professionally detached as she can, but it's getting harder and harder. Sometimes she's so tired of being the sole pillar of wisdom, the one everyone looks to for guidance. When does she get someone to comfort _her_ and tell her she's doing the right thing? "She's right. I don't want her to die, but I am biased. She deserves a fully committed mentor. Go ahead and throw your full support behind Livia. Don't worry about Finnick."  
  
Donn looks yet again at Rudder, who still doesn't say anything. Rudder shows no signs of being of two minds about who he's supporting. Livia went through training with him, of course, but she got the same professional detachment from him that ninety-nine trainees out of a hundred get. Nor does Rudder apologize for the effect that his presence is having on her. He pulls the belt knife he always carries from its sheath and holds it up to the light, checking for signs of tarnish. His manifest lack of interest doesn't bother Mags. She's used to him. As long as he does what needs to be done, he doesn't need to waste a lot of words on it.  
  
"She'll have everything I can give her," Donn promises.  
  
It's the best Mags can do. It would kill her not to give Finnick all her support in the arena. And it would certainly kill Finnick.  
  


* * *

  
Livia trains with the rest of the Career pack: Trim and Sheer from District One, Junia and Jacquard from District Two. She doesn't talk to Mags any more, not even polite small talk at dinner.  
  
Finnick reports to Mags every night. They sit in her room together and talk for hours.  
  
"I'm not showing them anything I can do. I am checking out the plants and insects stations, at your suggestion. But mostly I'm wandering around watching the other tributes."  
  
He tells her everything he sees of their skills and behavior, and she helps him interpret what he's seeing. Junia's good with knives, Trim and Sheer with swords, and Jacquard favors the spear. Jacquard is the biggest of the Career pack. Not the tallest—that's Trim—but the bulkiest. Sheer's the smallest, and Mags says to keep an eye on her. "If she felt good enough to volunteer, she must have something going for her upstairs. Watch out for Junia too. The girls from Two can be vicious with those knives."  
  
When it comes time for evaluation, Finnick shows off his knot-tying, trap-setting skills. It earns him a seven, since the highest scores are always reserved for the skills of single combat. Since leaving District Four, Finnick has not allowed himself to touch or even so much as look at a spear. There are no tridents in the training facilities, so unless there's one in the arena--unlikely, Mags and Rudder agree—the spear is his best shot.  
  
"Grab one from the Cornucopia if you can," Rudder advises. "If you can't, get a good knife and make one, if there's wood."  
  
"And if there's not?"  
  
Rudder flicks his eyes at Mags. "This is her domain."  
  
Mags and Finnick have gone over every climate and type of terrain that's been seen in the Games. Finnick knows what to do, but it's good that he's not getting contradictory advice from Rudder.  
  
Mags has to resist the urge to start pouring out all the wisdom she's acquired in seventy years. That's just her anxiety talking. If Finnick doesn't have it now, he won't get it in the next few days. But she does sit him down, two days before the Games begin, for a final quiz.  
  
"What would you consider the most important things to remember that are independent of what the arena is like?"  
  
"Don't panic," Finnick begins reciting. "Don't lose your head. Don't let the other tributes provoke you into doing what they want you to do. Stay aware of your surroundings at all times, even--especially--when under attack. Cover your back. Eat when you can. Sleep when you can, but not for very long at one time." He pauses in his recitation. "I'm going it alone, so I won't have anyone to keep watch."  
  
Mags still thinks that's a mistake. No, getting in with the traditional Career pack is not a good move for him if he wants to be ignored. But there are other tributes with a fighting chance.  
  
"The larger a group I'm in," Finnick argues, "the bigger a threat I am to the Career pack, and the faster they come after me. I need time."  
  
"You're reacting from fear, not strategy," Mags warns him. Fear is good, because it's what moves you to avoid death, but if you let it guide you away from a better plan, fear can kill you.  
  
"Strategy," Finnick insists. "Tell me I'll die if I do it my way."  
  
Mags learned the hard way over the years that she has to be careful not to let her desire to be right cripple her tributes. Forcing them into a situation they're less comfortable with, even if it's better from an objective point of view, can prove fatal.  
  
It's still hard not to keep insisting, maybe especially with Finnick, who's usually docile when it comes to advice for surviving. Well, he's usually argumentative, because he wants to be absolutely sure every aspect of the scenario has been considered. Once he's satisfied with the thoroughness of her plan, though, he accepts Mags' evaluation. He rarely presents her with an ultimatum like this.  
  
"I can't say that you'll die. I can say it'll be harder for you to survive the first few days."  
  
"Maybe so," Finnick concedes. "But once the bloodbath is over, the first few are the easiest. It's the last that are hardest."  
  
"You have to survive them all in order to survive," Mags says, tautologically. "Do it your way, then. I'd tell you if I thought it was suicidal."  
  
His Flickerman interview is an unqualified success. Everyone agrees that sex appeal is the best way to go about getting him sponsors without drawing undue attention from the Careers. Finnick plays his part to the hilt, laying on the charm as thick as it comes. He strikes the right balance of looking like he feels good about his chances without coming across as overly threatening to the wrong people, and the sponsors are already lining up to talk to Mags.  
  
Then, suddenly, the last five years are over and she's saying goodbye. She can't afford to show any doubts when she sends him into the arena, so she smiles as confidently as she can. "Come home," Mags tells him, and Finnick bends down to accept one final kiss. Then he's on his own.  
  
**Day One**  
  
The countdown begins. Mags and Rudder sit forward on the sofa, tense. Like most of the tributes, Finnick's swinging his head around, surveying the terrain, and squinting at the Cornucopia.  
  
The ground is boggy. Good, that means there'll be water. Even if it's not the ocean.  
  
The distribution of goods is tight this year: almost everything is inside the mouth of the Cornucopia. This could mean a bigger bloodbath than usual, or a smaller one.  
  
The gun goes off.  
  
Finnick heads toward the Cornucopia. So do about half the tributes. The other half scatter immediately into the wild.  
  
One tribute gets stuck halfway in a patch of mud. The camera homes in on his struggles for a minute. He's sinking, and he doesn't look like he's going to make it out.  
  
But there are more interesting things going on around the Cornucopia, and the focus quickly jumps. "Both tributes from One, Two, and Four," lists the commentator for the benefit of the audience, who won't know them all well by name yet, "girl from Five, boy from Seven, boy from Eleven."  
  
"Finnick's moving well so far," Rudder observes.  
  
"At least he's avoiding quicksand," Mags says, reluctant to be more optimistic than that.  
  
"He's covering a lot of ground and not struggling with it," Rudder insists. Finnick's only disadvantage is that his legs aren't strong enough yet to match the older Careers, and they're making better time around the patchy ground.  
  
The boy from Seven is too hesitant, trying to watch the ground and avoid stepping on anything dangerous. By the time he makes it within throwing distance of the Cornucopia, he takes a knife in the throat from Junia, the girl from Two. A cannon goes off.  
  
Followed shortly by another cannon, and a quick glimpse of some curls being submerged in a patch of quicksand.  
  
Back to the bloodbath. Five tributes have surrounded the Cornucopia and are standing guard, circling it in a practiced clockwise movement.  
  
"Come on, show Finnick," Rudder pleads.  
  
"You're going to be saying that a lot," promises Mags with dry gallows humor. Under less fatal circumstances, it would be amusing to see Rudder so talkative.  
  
The girl from Five doesn't come in too close, grabs something the audience can't make out from the ground, and shoots out again into the depths of the arena.  
  
The camera now shows Finnick, circling around just on the edge of throwing range. The boy from Eleven is struggling with the terrain but still advancing. He must feel good about his chances in a fight. He's already snatched up a knife. Not a great one, this far out, but he's not unarmed.  
  
The camera switches to his perspective. He sees Finnick approaching from the side. Then in front, the Career pack starts closing ranks.  
  
Now a bird's-eye view, to show that most of the tributes have scattered, and the Cornucopia no longer needs a wide-ranging defense. There are only two tributes still advancing on it. If all five Careers can form a line blocking them, they don't stand a chance.  
  
But the Careers on the opposite side of the circle are still too far away, and still hindered by marshy patches. It's two on two, with a third Career fast approaching, when the boy from Eleven goes for Junia with his knife.  
  
Finnick stays close to his temporary ally, using him as a wedge to open up a weak point in the Career guard. While Junia is occupied with the boy from Eleven, Finnick darts in past them, snatches up a spear he's had his eye on, and darts out again.  
  
A cannon goes off, but the camera stays on Finnick. Trim advances on him, but he only has a sword, and he can't take on Finnick without coming inside the greater range of his spear. Finnick uses his advantage well, wielding the spear to keep his enemy at bay, while running at an angle away from the Cornucopia.  
  
The third Career, now coming up from the other side, might have been able to help, but it's Livia, and she hesitates to approach Finnick. Between her and her district partner are Junia and the boy from Eleven, and she stops to help there instead.  
  
The camera focuses on the trio, and the audience sees why Junia wasn't able to come to Trim's aid. During the knife fight, the much larger and heavier boy from Eleven landed on her. She took him from behind, but she's pinned underneath him and still struggling to get up. It takes both the girls to heave his body aside.  
  
And now the audience knows who the cannon was for. Back to Finnick, now outside the circle of pedestals. Still running, heading for safety.  
  
Surprisingly, unpursued.  
  
Rudder is gasping like a fish on land. "Survived the bloodbath. Why aren't they chasing him?"  
  
"Strategy," says Mags.  
  
The five members of the Career pack have assembled to discuss the next step. "We agreed to hold the Cornucopia and hunt down the others in a pack," Sheer opens. "Not to get caught up in individual vendettas."  
  
"This is very unusual!" enthuses Caesar Flickerman. "Much closer bonds than we usually see in a Career pack during the bloodbath."  
  
"Don't you think it was chilling the way they changed formations in silent communion?" Claudius Templesmith asks, shivering deliciously. "Like a pack of wolves."  
  
"I agree," says Mags grimly. "Your run-of-the-mill Career pack can't plan their way out of a paper bag. They hunt together because it makes them feel safer. Not because they've practiced their moves together. This one is acting like a unit of trained soldiers, not a grab-bag of people who've agreed to wait a few days before killing each other."  
  
"And Livia didn't say anything," Rudder grumbles.  
  
"Why would she? She's smart; she wants to survive. I encourage them to team up with the other tributes. Finnick was determined to go it alone."  
  
Trim, the one who faced Finnick with a sword, is speaking, and Mags and Rudder fall silent to listen.  
  
"Only two dead in the bloodbath, plus one in the quicksand."  
  
"Not the best record for a Career pack," Livia mutters.  
  
Junia, who was responsible for both those kills, shakes her head. "But only one made it out with a weapon, and I think maybe one grabbed something unimportant from the fringes. The rest are helpless. How good is he with that weapon?" she asks Livia. "He's from your district, right?"  
  
Jacquard interrupts. "Or better yet, how long can he survive in the wild with nothing but a spear? Do we even need to bother hunting him down, or should we pick easier prey and let him get himself killed?"  
  
Trim growls at the idea, because he's already faced Finnick in an aborted confrontation and wants to finish what he started, but he subsides, deferring to the greater plan.  
  
Livia shrugs. "Dunno. Girls and boys are trained separately. He got a seven in the evaluation. I wouldn't say he's the strongest or weakest. He can use it, but he was reaped before his time. He's only fourteen." Everyone in this group has pulled off a nine or higher.  
  
"All right, then I say no one confronts him alone, but he's not our top priority either. Any objections?"  
  
There are none.  
  
"As we agreed, then, Trim and Livia on guard at the Cornucopia, the rest on the prowl. The hunting party stay within whistling distance of each other. We meet back at the Cornucopia every four hours if we're able to."  
  
Livia suggests, "I'd start by heading up that river. Not only will it give us water if it's clean enough, and probably food, but it'll draw other tributes as well. It'll mean less ground we have to cover when we're hunting."  
  
"Smart girl," says Mags.  
  
"Finnick will head for water," Rudder warns.  
  
"He's smart too."  
  
**Days Two-Three**  
  
Slowly, the hunting Career pack is picking off tributes. Their strategy of guarding the Cornucopia and hunting is not an unusual one; it's the obvious one. But they're executing better and with less dissension than Mags has seen in quite some time. Splitting up allows them to cover more ground. Meeting up regularly and shifting the membership of the guard and hunting party keeps them from forming internal alliances. She wonders how much the mentors from One and Two had to do with guiding this plan. Maybe a recent victor has some good ideas.  
  
"What's Finnick doing?" Rudder asks. Finnick's been feeding himself with the spear and some traps and has even acquired three knives that Junia lost, but he has yet to make a cannon go off.  
  
"Reconnoitering the terrain. The Gamemakers can always change it up, but it still gives a tremendous advantage. Most tributes won't be able to, or won't bother. Notice that the Careers are still trying to stay close to the river."  
  
"How's his sponsorship fund looking?" Rudder asks.  
  
"Not too shabby," Mags answers. "It might be time to send some food."  
  
Rudder agrees. "He's finding plenty, but he's covering a lot of ground, and that means he's burning a lot of energy. I don't want him weakened when he meets a Career."  
  
"And maybe some ointment for those blisters."  
  
Rudder shakes his head. "Your call, but I'd save it. I taught him to fight with worse than blisters. If he's not actually wounded, he should be able to ignore it. We may need the money more later."  
  
Mags laughs under her breath. "Tough love indeed. We'll save it, then. I'm glad to see he's been refraining from taking off his boots for a moment, even though he clearly wants to. The moment he does, some threat will hit when he's vulnerable."  
  
"We taught him well."  
  
"Day Three and he's still alive--Ooh, ooh!" Mags leans forward, clutching the nearest object with white knuckles. It happens to be the table that's holding Rudder's drink, which sloshes over. "Did you see that?"  
  
Rudder blinks. "What? Two of the hunting Careers passed by, and they didn't see him, and he didn't ambush them. Nothing happened."  
  
"No, but did you _see_? He didn't freeze, he didn't rush in, he didn't panic. He shifted position and tightened his grip on his spear, ready to fight but just as glad to let them pass by. Look at his body language, look at his face. He's _calm_. That's why he's not making any mistakes."  
  
Rudder still doesn't look sufficiently impressed, so Mags presses the point. "You train them to fight, so all you can think is, of course he's ready. You don't come here every year to know how rare it is that three days go by without me saying someone's made a mistake. Everyone panics, or else they get sloppy with overconfidence. Livia's not as bad as the rest, because I taught her, but neither did I drill her every single night. Finnick is so calm, and so cautious. That was his 'everything is going according to plan' look you just saw. There may be some who can fight better, but I don't see anyone out there who's thinking as well as he is, and that's with an unusually thoughtful Career pack."  
  
"You think he's going to pull this off," Rudder concludes.  
  
Mags makes a face of doubt and growing hope mingled. "I'm seeing signs in him I haven't seen in anyone in many years."  
  
"Best-taught Career yet." Rudder raises his glass and salutes the unseeing boy on the screen.  
  


* * *

  
"Blowing kisses to the cameras and wrapping the audience around his little finger," Rudder observes when the third silver parachute descends. "I didn't teach him that."  
  
"I certainly didn't," Mags chuckles. "He's a natural. Charming the birds right out of the trees."  
  
"Is that how he got us to agree about the Reaping?"  
  
Mags grunts. "As I recall, he got me to agree, and I got you to agree."  
  
Rudder narrows his eyes, but doesn't protest. "It's paying off, anyway. Flirting with the sponsors, I mean."  
  
"Sponsors can't save you from the arena," Mags says cynically. "They can only help you die more comfortably." It's an old saying of hers. "He's got to do this on his own."  
  
"He's doing it."  
  
**Day Four**  
  
Finnick makes his first kill on Day Four. Or at least, his first direct kill. A couple of tributes have fallen into the traps he's been laying as he goes, and both have been killed and stripped of their supplies by other tributes who happened along later. A few tributes have also been fed by those same traps, but he can't help that.  
  
The boy from Three is kneeling to tie something at the base of a tree, and he never rises. The spear goes through his throat and emerges through the other side.  
  
"Did you see that?"  
  
Rudder sighs. "Whatever it was, I'm sure I didn't. Just tell me."  
  
"In and out, covering his back as soon as the job was done. No vaunting, no stopping to strip his enemy, no running away in fear. He just moved to make sure his back wasn't exposed, took stock of the situation, made sure he was alone, and only then went to retrieve his spear and collect what goods he could. This is a plan in action."  
  
Rudder nods in satisfaction. "I taught him that. Not vaunting, I mean."  
  
" _I_ taught him that. I told him even if he survived it, he'd answer to me for taking that risk. I'm going to use this clip on every future trainee. Always cover your back. Everything in the arena is deadly. I'm-" Mags stops short, choking. She covers her face with her hands.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Damnit." Her voice is thick with unshed tears and frustration. "Why do I find myself thinking that I need to use this when Livia comes out, to show her what she's doing wrong when she lingers over her opponent's body? She's not coming out. You'd think I didn't do this every single year."  
  
"Because the rules don't make any sense. You train them and train them and tell them they're doing it wrong, until one day they do it wrong and they die." Rudder takes the knife he's holding and jams it into the tabletop. "Finnick's coming home. He does anything wrong between now and then, I'll tell him off about it. And then I'll buy him a drink."  
  
Later that day, Finnick gets into his first real trouble. He's catching fish with his bare hands, and suddenly he jerks his hands out of the water, with a cry that he immediately makes to suppress by burying his mouth in his shoulder.  
  
One hand is red and swollen. Several spiny needles protrude from it. Finnick's eyes are closed and leaking tears of pain, but even so, he reacts as he's been trained. He retreats from the bank and puts his back to a tree while he's vulnerable.  
  
"Right hand," Rudder snaps. "Better get him something for it."  
  
Mags is already on her feet. Rudder lets her deal with the vendors while he remains glued.  
  
Finnick has managed to open his watering eyes, spot his spear lying on the ground, and grab it with his left hand before returning to his tree. The knives he's acquired in the last few days are bound to his waist by a makeshift belt of vines, so at least he wasn't wholly unarmed.  
  
The medicine arrives in short order, but Finnick has already had to move deeper into hiding to avoid some tributes that he can hear coming. The whistling sound of the descending parachute alerts them to his hiding place, so while he's crouching in the reeds, he's frantically trying to open the pot of ointment with his damaged right hand while holding the spear in his left.  
  
It's a race against time, and Finnick will not put down his spear.  
  
"That's my boy," Rudder breathes. Then he sighs with exasperation, and Mags realizes with amusement that he's instinctively being quiet because he doesn't want to give the others any more clues to Finnick's location.  
  
"No, put it down," Mags hisses. "Stay calm."  
  
The two tributes from Five find him before he's had a chance to administer any of the medication. In sheer agony, he hurls the pot with his right hand at the face of the girl, buying himself time to drive the spear through the guts of the boy. The act causes Finnick to scream in pain, which may be a mistake if it draws the attention of anyone else, but since he's glaring at both the other tributes as he shrieks, it startles them and causes them to flinch backward, which makes it not a bad mistake. The boy lies on the ground grabbing futilely at the shaft in his belly, gasping and staring in shock at the sky.  
  
The moment the spear is out of Finnick's hand, he grabs a knife from his belt. The odds are now one on one, and the girl, though she's unharmed, decides that discretion is the better part of valor against an opponent who shows every sign of being berserk.  
  
Finnick lets her go and sinks to the ground, feeling around for his pot.  
  
Mags is wrapping her arms around her body and rocking back and forth, because this is not going according to plan. Still, he should be able to keep his head. No plan lasts forever, and he should know better than to fall apart when it does.  
  
He gets the ointment on his hand, finally, and the relief is as immediate as it is obvious.  
  
Being Finnick, aware that he's constantly performing for the benefit of his audience, he paints some on the edge of his lips and blows more kisses to the sky. _Thank_ _you,_ he mouths, with his most delightful smile.  
  
His odds go up, his sponsorship fund more than replenishes itself, and Mags and Rudder heave another sigh of relief at the end of Day Four.  
  
**Day Seven**  
  
One minute Trim is hunting, and the next he's hanging upside down from a tree. His sword lies on the ground beneath him, and the more he thrashes, the tighter the knots draw.  
  
Livia hears his struggles and comes running even before she hears his whistle signaling for help.  
  
"A little too impetuous," Mags grumbles. "Confidence is good, but..."  
  
Livia cuts her fellow Career down, but she's not strong enough to break his fall effectively from that height, and he lands badly. He rises cursing and clutching his right shoulder.  
  
Trim seizes his sword from the ground and glares at Livia as though he suspects her of wanting to take advantage of him.  
  
She sees it and tosses her head in contempt. "If I wanted to kill you now, why would I save you and arm you first?"  
  
Trim spits in anger on the ground and turns back to the trap that almost felled him. Holding his sword loosely in his right hand, he snatches at the vine with his uninjured left.  
  
"Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy," says Mags.  
  
"Who made this?" He thrusts the knotted end out at Livia. "This from your district?"  
  
Livia refuses to be intimidated. "Could be. Could be from anyone who trained at that station last week. It's not hard. I didn't set it, if that's what you want to know."  
  
Trim's ego doesn't like hearing that something he didn't bother learning isn't hard, and he hurls the vine down. "Fine." But he's seething as they resume hunting.  
  
Mags sucks in her breath between her teeth. "I didn't like the looks of that. He thinks she's covering for Finnick."  
  
"Is she?" Rudder wonders.  
  
"Does it matter? She wants to stay alive, and she'll kill both Trim and Finnick if she can, when the time comes. Will she keep Finnick alive for now in hopes he'll join up with her when the Career alliance breaks down? I can't say."  
  
The next time Livia's on guard and Trim's hunting, though, Mags' suspicions are confirmed. "We're going to need to hunt that kid from Four," Trim opens as soon as they're out of earshot. "The arena isn't killing him for us."  
  
"We're going to need to hunt everyone eventually," Junia says, nonchalant. "You want to start with him now?"  
  
"Not just yet," Trim tells her. "Did you hear Livia say on the first day that he knows how to use that spear?"  
  
"Yeah, so?" Junia scoffs.  
  
"Yeah, so, he's been through training with her," Trim reasons. "If we're hunting him with her, what does that mean for us?"  
  
Mags buries her face in her hands. "Worse than I thought. I thought Trim was getting sloppy because he was too angry to think. Now I see he's thinking after all."  
  
"Well, either that she can tell us a lot about how to find him, or she can betray us," Sheer says when Junia is silent.  
  
"Or even just hesitate," Trim points out.  
  
"She did, in the bloodbath," Junia says. Livia had come to her aid instead, but only after looking at Finnick and then looking away for something else to do. Resent him she might, but the taboo between district partners is strong. Even Rudder only killed his at the very end, when there were only the two of them left. “But I thought they were trained separately.”  
  
"We have _her_ word for that,” Sheer sneers with a condescending look at Junia. Junia doesn't like it, but she can't argue. “So we take her out. Then we hunt him."  
  
"I've been thinking about it," Trim says, now that everyone is on the same page. "The next time one of the three of us is on guard duty with her. Not hunting: too many chances for her to get away and join him."  
  
Sheer is nodding her agreement. "She's outlived her usefulness. If the four of us can't take on a fourteen-year-old kid, then what are we doing here?"  
  
So it is agreed.  
  


* * *

  
Mags and Rudder are staring at the numbers.  
  
"Will it be enough?" Rudder wonders. "I don't know prices in the Capitol."  
  
"Possibly just enough," Mags answers hesitantly. "No food or especially medical supplies for a while."  
  
"If he gets his hands on his own weapon, and gets a chance to show off his skill with it, he'll be set with sponsors for life."  
  
"It's not as easy as you think," Mags says, but she refuses to elaborate. "Let's do it, then."  
  
Taking every last bit of coin in Finnick's sponsorship fund, and all of Mags' experience at haggling, a well-crafted trident is sent into the arena. The only reason they can afford it at all is that everyone watches the Games for the combat, and the sellers are willing to give them thirty percent on credit when Rudder sells Finnick's skill and the resulting entertainment value.  
  
"He's put on a good show so far,” the vendor concedes. “You've got yourself a deal."  
  
Finnick knows his end of the deal, and he spends some time twirling his new weapon and showing off his moves as soon as he gets it. Normally it might be a mistake, to risk being distracted from threats, but his mentors know how deliberate this choice is.  
  
Immediately after, he begins hacking at vines with his longest knife.  
  
"If he delays too long," Mag predicts, "if he doesn't encounter a Career soon, they're either going to drive him toward the Cornucopia, or they're going to send a pack of mutts after him. They'll want to see him use it."  
  
"That's what you meant, then," Rudder realizes.  
  
"Yeah. There's a price to pay."  
  
Mags' experience with the Gamemakers is accurate as always. Ripples in the water turn into snouts. Huge alligator-like creatures, but with larger teeth.  
  
"Come on," Rudder urges him.  
  
"The big threat here is wounding," Mags explains. "Watch them attack one or two at a time. They're not trying to take him out here. We all know if the Gamemakers want to eliminate any tribute or all the tributes, they can, no problem. They want to make him fight. That doesn't mean he won't still die of his wounds."  
  
"Or die later, when the Careers find him wounded."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
Finnick in the water, though, is just using the mutts to warm up. His first net is destroyed early on, but his trident stabs right, left, forward. There are only two mutts left when it gets serious. He hasn't slipped yet, but one rises far enough from the water to seize his pack from behind, pulling him down.  
  
Once he's down, the mutt in front of him moves in. They could both have eaten him a long time ago, but they're toying with their prey. The tributes are always given a fighting chance, though never a fair one.  
  
Finnick's hung onto his trident, and it goes into the eyes of the mutt he's facing. His previous victims have already shown him that the eyes are the weak spot in the scaly armor of these beasts. If he drives two points of his trident into the eyes, the middle prong goes into the brain between them.  
  
But behind him, the remaining mutt is reaching for his throat with his jaws. One snap, and Finnick is dead.  
  
To do so, though, the mutt had to release the pack, giving Finnick the chance to lunge forward, trident still in hand. This move buys him a few inches, but he doesn't have time to turn around, nor space with all the corpses floating about him.  
  
He has one risky chance, and he takes it. Going purely by feel, Finnick shoves the shaft of his trident backwards into the creature's mouth. The creature tries to chomp it in half, but it's made of metal, and it doesn't give. Throwing his weight forward and down, Finnick turns the trident into a wedge that's prying the jaws apart, unable to close. The mutt can't shake it loose immediately, because Finnick's secured it by jamming it between the creature's front teeth.  
  
Rudder's shaking his head. "This is still a really bad position to be in. In order to use his weapon, Finnick needs to yank it out of the mutt's mouth, turn himself around, turn his weapon around, and stab, all before the mutt has the opportunity to leap on him. No chance his reflexes are fast enough for that. And no chance he's strong enough to hold this position for long. Maybe in four years, not now. Damn you," he breathes. "You're going to die on us, and I'll never have the chance to tell you what an idiot you are."  
  
Finnick has a different plan. Moving backward along his trident, pressing it down as long as he can, he releases his weapon suddenly. When the mutt clamps its jaws down, Finnick leaps unexpectedly onto the neck, straddling the beast. The mutt now has a stupid metal stick shoved into its throat and a human on top of it. The human is now leaning forward, pressing its upper jaw down with one hand. All it can do is thrash in agony, trying to unseat these annoyances. The trident it manages to dislodge first, instinctively wanting its natural weapon—its jaws—back. The trident sinks to the bottom of the pond.  
  
In this crazy riding act, Finnick manages to reach a knife strapped firmly to his waist that hasn't been lost in the battle, and drive it between the mutt's eyes from behind. That's the killer blow, straight to the tiny brain.  
  
The Capitol viewing facilities erupt in violent cheering. This is a show!  
  
Rudder gives a great involuntary shout with them. Then he looks in shock at Mags, who's nodding wisely to herself.  
  
"You did not see that coming!" he yells at her. "Look more impressed."  
  
"We went over that," Mags says, her voice rich with satisfaction.  
  
Rudder rolls his eyes sarcastically. "Finnick, when an alligator comes up on you from behind, shove your trident into its mouth behind you, ride it like a horse, make sure you have a knife ready for this, don't lose your balance, don't get eaten, make sure there aren't any other mutts around when you do this, and then pretend to be nonchalant when you survive. Yeah, I'm sure that was covered on day one."  
  
"The different pieces. Come on, you don't come up with a plan like that by thinking fast under pressure. Your mind goes blank under pressure. You come up with a plan like that by being ready. I make my students practice fighting from a disadvantaged position. I tell them that's going to make up about ninety percent of the times they have to fight. I think Districts One and Two practice fighting with the upper hand."  
  
"God, no wonder we have so many dropouts." Rudder shakes his head in disbelief. "I must have been playing hooky the day you trained me to fight alligators from behind. I remember having to make shit up on the fly in the arena."  
  
"Come on." Mags elbows him. "Finnick's having to do that too. But the more situations you're prepared for, the less you have to make up, and the better the 'shit' you come up with is. I taught him to look for weak spots in mutts, not to assume they're the same as the animals they resemble but not to ignore what he knows about the animals either, to make sure he practiced fighting an enemy coming up from behind without turning around, and not to panic when he's been brought down and is having to fight from the ground. On different days. And he already knew how to keep his balance on a rocking object in the water."  
  
Rudder grunts. "Well, he lost his trident, anyway."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
Finnick is sitting on the ground by the water, back to a tree, arms wrapped around his knees, convulsing with fear and tension now that it's over.  
  
Mags' need to put her arms around him is a physical ache, but he's beyond her reach.  
  
The bodies of the mutts have vanished below the water. Finnick rises and stares into the murky water, then turns away. He has one knife left. No other supplies. And his fund is empty.  
  
He starts cutting vines. The audience has watched him make more than one net already, and the camera turns to more interesting scenes.  
  


* * *

  
Livia's guarding the Cornucopia. Sheer is with her. Trim, Junia, and Jacquard are hunting. Four tributes remain to be hunted down before the Career pack dissolves into the final bloodbath.  
  
Sheer keeps glancing over at Livia, but as they circle, Livia's keeping her back to the Cornucopia and her distance from Sheer. She hasn't acknowledged that she feels threatened, but she's not stupid either.  
  
Does she have a plan if the others come back and she's still alive? She might break loose and head out looking for Finnick, but no one knows.  
  
"Odds?" Mags asks quietly.  
  
Rudder shakes his head. "Livia's bigger, but she's not ready to break the alliance. Sheer is, and she's got good footwork. She might be able to get a killing blow in with her sword, but she’s not as strong. I don't know why they didn't leave..."  
  
"One of the boys?" Mags looks undecided. "Size isn't everything. I've seen a lot of tributes get weird about the opposite sex in the arena. Mostly girls getting underestimated, whether that means they get ignored or targeted first. Look at how everyone went for Junia's spot in the perimeter during the bloodbath. But if a boy's going to be reluctant to take out a girl in hand to hand combat, it's usually early in the game. Usually by this point, survival takes over."  
  
Rudder points out, "Trim wants to take on Finnick personally, so he wants to go hunting. That just leaves Jacquard."  
  
"Sheer was the better choice, then,” Mags decides. “Jacquard would have given the game away by now. Not sure if they know that, though."  
  
"Why aren't they doing it four on one?" Rudder wonders. "Much easier, you'd think."  
  
"Again, not sure. It's a good idea not to. Once the blood starts flowing, it'll be hard on any of them to put their weapons down first. One on one is safer for the pack. Much more dangerous for Sheer, though. Then if Livia wins and then finds Finnick, they've gone from a Career pack of five to one Career pack of three and one of two."  
  
"Even if she gets away, it's four to two instead of four to one.”  
  
"They can do the math as well as we can. If they start infighting now, though, it'll be zero to one, and the one will be Finnick. Maybe they just consider Sheer more expendable, if it comes to losing one of them."  
  
"She thinks she can do it," Rudder observes.  
  
Livia and Sheer circle, backs to the Cornucopia, for what seems an eternity. "Pick up the bow," Mags urges. "Pick up the bow."  
  
She does, but the 'she' is Sheer, not Livia.  
  
They can just barely hear each other from opposite sides of the Cornucopia. Mud sucking at their feet, packs making swishing noises as they brush against the metal. Livia takes the opportunity to duck inside the Cornucopia.  
  
Ambush.  
  
When Sheer comes around to that point of the circle, her bow and arrow are ready.  
  
Livia's waiting at the entrance for her, but Sheer is taking a wider circle this time, hoping to catch Livia with a shot down the length of the Cornucopia. Livia's in bow range, but Sheer's not in sword range. Livia's instincts that she was betrayed were true, but she lost the game of positioning.  
  
"Fish in a barrel," Rudder laments when the cannon goes off.  
  
"She couldn't know how good Sheer is with that bow, if she could hit a running target. We still don't know. And I'm guessing Livia wanted to keep the Career alliance. If she had killed Sheer, she might have convinced the returning Careers that she chose them over Finnick, and that might have been enough to buy her place."  
  
"We'll never know." Rudder lifts his glass in a final salute, as Livia's body is lifted by the hovercraft. "Warrior to the end."  
  


* * *

  
"He got it. He got it!" Rudder shouts with glee.  
  
Mags looks at him. "You know, I've heard you utter more words in the last week than in the last twenty-five years. With emotion, no less."  
  
"Shut up," he says amiably. "How many times have you seen me send a crazy fourteen-year-old into the arena?"  
  
She's seen him send many tributes into the arena. Mostly he sends them off from home without bothering to come to the Capitol. When he does come, he watches impassively, and returns after their deaths without a word. She has no idea how he feels about anything connected to the Hunger Games. Now, with growing curiosity, she watches his impassioned support of Finnick arise out of the blue. She's always seen Finnick as hers, and it's news to her that anyone else thinks he's special.  
  
They turn back to their crazy fourteen-year-old. It's just after sunset, and his net has just fished not only his ruined pack but also his trident out of the water. The knives are long gone, probably buried under the mud at the bottom and far too small to fetch up with a net. But the trident is what matters.  
  
"He's not going to dive for the rest?" Rudder asks when Finnick walks away with his trident and his net.  
  
"Not worth it. Too many dangers in the water. You can always get more food."  
  
"I hope he's not counting on it from us."  
  
"The way he fought? There'll be more coming," Mags promises. "If not today, then soon. Plus, he has District Four sponsors, not just Capitol." Normally, Capitol sponsors are much better to have, but Finnick's Capitol funds are still paying off his trident. Only his District Four funds can now be used to send bread into the arena. This separation was one of the conditions Mags set during the negotiations before agreeing to take his trident on credit.  
  
"As long as he keeps entertaining."  
  
They hear an aborted cry, and the camera cuts to Junia. She's taken to the river to shake the mutts that pursue her, noses to the ground like bloodhounds.  
  
It's not a bad idea, but "Get out of the water!" Mags hears someone in the room shout. One of Junia's fans, or possibly her mentors.  
  
"Someone got the memo," a cynical voice says from behind them.  
  
Mags and Rudder turn around. Haymitch Abernathy is leaning over the edge of the couch they're sitting on. More accurately, he's propping himself up against it.  
  
"Your boy going to win this year?" he slurs, bitter. His eyes are bloodshot. It's alcohol, but it's also grief. "I've got a girl out there. But she's thirteen, she can't swim, she can't fight, and she's only alive because they haven't gotten around to hunting her down yet."  
  
"Then she's done well to last this long." Provided herself with food and a good hiding place, at least.  
  
"Well is dead." Haymitch stalks off again when Finnick appears on the screen, watching Junia through the trees.  
  
Mags wants to help everyone, but she can't. She has to hope his thirteen-year-old girl dies. Because he's right: well is dead. Livia did well, and she didn't last even as long as this girl from Twelve.  
  
Junia's instincts, to make for the opposite bank when she hears an unknown tribute sliding into the river, would save her life under most circumstances, but they do her no good against a Career from District Four. She tries to dive when she feels the net closing, but the trident stabs again and again until a cannon goes off. Then like a flash, Finnick is pulling out of the water. The sound of her thrashing will attract anyone nearby.  
  
"He left the net," Rudder observes. "He knows he can make another one."  
  
"It's more than that," Mags says. "Imagine you're fourteen. Everything and everyone is trying to kill you. You have two things that are keeping you alive. You drop one. Do you go back for it? Of course you do. It makes you feel safe. While you're going for it, someone comes up from behind and kills you. I see it every year. Finnick's in the arena with a plan, and a whole lot of training to leave anything behind that he can replace. The trident was worth saving, but even that he didn't dive in instantly for. The net wasn't."  
  
"That's our boy."  
  
Finnick takes longer to emerge than he should, and when he finally hobbles into a standing position, they see why. He's clutching his left hip, and a darkening liquid is spreading over his hand and thigh.  
  
"She got in a blow!" someone cheers. Mags curses when the camera moves from his hand to his face. She needs to see how bad the wound is and what Finnick needs from her.  
  
Finnick lifts his head, hearing cries in the distance. Jacquard is calling Junia's name. He's not too far away, and his carelessness is making him easy to locate. Finnick's carrying his trident, but netless, foodless, and wounded. If Jacquard is alone, now might be a good time to take him, before he meets up with his allies. And possibly before Finnick's condition gets any worse. But there's no knowing how near Trim is, and Jacquard is taller, stronger, and perhaps faster than Finnick.  
  
While he stands there, indecisive, he's still stanching the flow of blood from his hip. Mags can see it slowing. If the knife blade was stopped by bone and didn't hit any major vessels, the cut might be shallow.  
  
"Can we get him anything for that?" Rudder's watching intently.  
  
Mags, who's been keeping track of the funds, shakes her head. "A bandage, but nothing fancier. And he needs to get further away if he wants it. I can't have a repeat of the parachute betraying his location. Jacquard and Trim will not go down as easily as the previous two."  
  
Finnick decides the same thing, for he turns away and heads farther from the Cornucopia and farther from the river, leaving the Career pack behind.  
  
Rudder steals a glance at his partner. She's not looking thrilled.  
  
"You wanted him to fight? He's overmatched and wounded."  
  
"No," Mags says. "But the Gamemakers do. And I'd rather face two eighteen-year-old boys any day than the all-powerful gods of the arena. More depends on skill and less on chance."  
  
"This is why he should have waited a few years."  
  
"I'm more and more convinced he made the right call," Mags says, to his disbelief. "Though maybe not for the right reasons. I've seen too many Careers win on sheer power. If you don't need to rely on your brain by the time you're eighteen, you're not going to develop it later. But if Finnick learns to use his now, then in a few years he'll have brains _and_ brawn, and he'll be set for life."  
  
"If he makes it to fifteen against these odds."  
  
"Well. He'll have a really _good_ brain."  
  
Half an hour's trek away, Finnick stops. He's had no food since mid-day, but he goes for the vines first thing. His gait was awkward, but he's ignoring it to work now, so she has to trust him that it's not life-threatening. She's seen tributes bleed to death without realizing it, but nevertheless she has to choose between sending him bread or a bandage now, and letting him fend for himself while the funds build to a level that can cover critical medical expenses later. He's hanging in there, so she waits.  
  
Mags obsessively claws a hole in the seat of the cushion by her knee, tearing and tearing at the plush fabric. Her nerves communicate themselves to Rudder, who starts shifting anxiously, looking at the screen, looking at her. "More mutts?"  
  
"It's too dark to tell how his wound is doing, but assuming he's all right and he keeps at that net...Fire, I'm guessing. Something to drive him back to the water. We sent him that trident, we committed him to fighting with it."  
  
This is Mags' fifty-fifth year as mentor.  
  
She's not far off. Finnick's only halfway done when lightning splits the tree he's just about to start stripping vines from.  
  
Finnick leaps back, unharmed, but taking the warning to heart. He picks up his trident and stands looking out toward the center of the arena, toward his rivals. It makes a striking pose, and he knows it.  
  
"Hunting time," Finnick announces, with every sign of relish.  
  
Then he sets off, half-finished net in hand. The lightning drives him forward, but he keeps a deliberate pace.  
  
Rudder gasps as the lightning just misses Finnick and he doesn't flinch. "He's walking," he says in shock. The point is so very clearly for him to flee in terror.  
  
Mags voice goes very, very quiet. "He's stalking his prey." They're in the Capitol, where she doesn't dare say what she's thinking. Finnick wants to save his breath and arrive fresh, and to get that he just negotiated with the Gamemakers. He's forcing them to treat him as not as a victim, but as someone who has something they want, in return for something he wants. He must have figured out it can't be real lightning, or surely he'd be dead by now.  
  
The way he moves, like an actor on center stage, he makes the lightning into a sort of accompaniment. Depending on the angle, it throws his grim, ecstatic face into relief or silhouettes his body. Above all, the flashing of power around him makes him look fearless and invincible.  
  
He's gambling, gambling high, and even if the Gamemakers give him what he wants for the sake of the show he's putting on, they can still make him pay for it later.  
  
It's far more reckless than rigging the draw.  
  
Everywhere around her, Mags can hear the viewers cheering on the tributes by name. "Trim!" "Finnick!" "Jacquard!" "Sheer!" A glance at the board shows her that Trim is still the favorite to win, but Finnick's odds have been climbing for a week. No one other than these four is any longer considered to have more than a fluke chance of winning. Sometimes there's a clear underdog by this point, but not this year. Or maybe from the bettors' perspective, Finnick _is_ the underdog. It's hard to keep in mind that very few people know how prepared he is.  
  


* * *

  
"A tree. I thought for sure he'd take to the water."  
  
Mags is confused too. "He's in a tree near the water?" she hazards.  
  
"He's mentally in the zone, at least." Rudder's relief is audible. "I doubt his hip conveniently stopped bothering him; I think he narrowed his focus to battle-readiness and tuned it out."  
  
It's true, he hasn't been seen to touch it or to limp since the lightning began. And there's been no further sign of bleeding, so Mags finally relaxed on that front.  
  
At least the lightning has stopped, now that he's deemed close enough for the battle to begin. Finnick spent a long time choosing this tree, and its merits become obvious when the camera shows that there are two forked branches close enough to the ground that he's able to store his now awkward trident there and begin climbing. He stops maybe seven feet from the ground, which makes sense if he's planning an ambush rather than a hiding place. Then he removes the half-woven net that he's hung round his shoulders, and begins hastily working it.  
  
It's too dark to make out the details of what he's doing, but whoever's managing the cameras does a good job of building the suspense, cutting back and forth between Finnick's perch and the two hunting Careers.  
  
The scene changes when Finnick throws something from his perch, making just enough noise to draw their attention.  
  
"Did you hear that?"  
  
"Yeah! Could be anything, be careful."  
  
Slowly Finnick draws them in, misleading them all the way. They hear the objects he throws where they land, not where they originate, and he has a good range. He may even have a slingshot; he's too well hidden among the leaves, in the dark of night, to tell what he's been making.  
  
Everything comes together when Jacquard steps directly under Finnick's tree. There's a loud hissing sound, and it takes Mags a minute to realize it's the simultaneously in-drawn breath of everyone watching.  
  
The attack happens too fast. It's only a few seconds later that anyone can piece together what happened. Jacquard is hanging from the branch, scrabbling at a noose around his neck, trying to shove his fingers underneath and buy his airway a precious inch of slackness. Finnick has dropped from the other side of the branch, using his weight to make the pulley work. He's chosen his branch well. Both it and the rope he made hold Jacquard's dangling, kicking body. Beneath the body lies the spear Jacquard dropped.  
  
Finnick, who's not strong enough to keep him hanging—only his quickly falling body has been enough to raise burly Jacquard off the ground—hastens to make a knot fast around another branch, this one low to the ground. Jacquard is sinking as the braided vine stretches, while Finnick races to get the knot in place. It's taking longer because Finnick is doing it at an awkward angle, with his back pressed to the tree. Trim is out there somewhere, and if Finnick turns his back to work this knot, he'll die tying it.  
  
Just as Jacquard's toes touch the ground, Finnick is shaking his trident free of the branches. He doesn't have time to make certain of his hanged enemy before a rustling tells him someone is coming through the underbrush.  
  
"That was too risky!" Mags shouts. "That depended on perfect aim in the dark and Jacquard not grabbing him on the way down. He's stronger, and if he hadn't been obsessed with the noose, he could have taken out Finnick on his way down and freed himself. Or he could have had a knife. No, I do not approve."  
  
"You mean Jacquard failed to think of that plan in that half second he had in which he was airborne and asphyxiating? I think it was safe to assume he'd be obsessed with getting air." Rudder considers. "As for perfect aim, I agree with you. There was a lot of chance involved in getting that noose around that neck."  
  
Trim breaks through into the clearing and sees his hunting partner dangling, with his eyes bugging out, tongue protruding, and fingertips turning black under the noose. Jacquard’s cannon finally goes off. Trim looks away from him without the slightest sign of empathy or fear. "So. It was you."  
  
"Most things were," Finnick answers. He can't know Trim fell into one of his traps, but it's probably not hard to guess that he means either that or Junia's death.  
  
Sword and trident, they go at it. They're not far into it when the anthem starts to play. Mags has never seen the Gamemakers not let the tributes look to see who's been killed. It's a sadistic disadvantage: Finnick can't know about Livia, Trim probably doesn't know about Junia, and neither of them knows about the girl from Eight, so they can imagine her cannon as anyone's.  
  
"Oh, I got your partner at the Cornucopia," Finnick lies casually. "Sheen? Sheer?"  
  
"No!" Trim shouts in denial. He's smart enough not to glance up at the sky, but the effort it takes to resist opens a hole in his defense wide enough for Finnick to break through.  
  
The audience screams when the metal points of the trident only slide harmlessly off his chest. Finnick doesn't know it, but underneath his jumpsuit, Trim's wearing body armor from the Cornucopia. It's light and strong, and it protects him without hindering his movement.  
  
Mags jumps in fear and for the first time, involuntary tears fill her eyes just when she most needs to not miss a moment. "Why hasn't he won? If Finnick can't hurt him."  
  
"Sssh," warns Rudder. He's almost in a trance, watching a battle in which every move means far more to him than to his partner. "Defense..." he says to himself, dream-like.  
  
The mishap helped Trim regain his confidence, but not his balance. Finnick's still on the offense, relentlessly driving Trim with jabs at his unprotected face. They dance over the ground, avoiding trees, rocks, and above all, treacherous patches of mud, with equal facility.  
  
"Finnick's moving them somewhere," Rudder concludes. "It's the only thing that makes sense of his footwork."  
  
"I told you, he knows the terrain better."  
  
"Closer to the water," Rudder guesses. He's the only one not surprised--Trim is flabbergasted--when out of the blue, Finnick takes a flying leap to the side. They hear a splash.  
  
Mags hopes whatever he's done has been enough to satisfy the Gamemakers that they should continue letting him live.  
  
**Night Seven**  
  
The anthem plays again, so the tape must be flashing back in time to show something recorded. Sheer is shown guarding the Cornucopia and watching the sky. The first to flash are Junia and Jacquard from Two. Trim has still not returned to trade guard duty with her.  
  
"Finnick," Sheer whispers, staring in shock at the sky. Livia's face goes by, but Sheer doesn't react.  
  
After the girl from Eight is shown, and the pictures fade from the sky, Sheer takes up the bow and arrows from the ground, and along with her sword, abandons the Cornucopia.  
  
"Fleeing or hunting?" Rudder wonders.  
  
Mags can only shake her head. "If only I could tell whether Finnick is upstream or downstream of the Cornucopia, and whether Trim has to cross the river to reach it or he's already on the right side. The cameras' constant cutting around makes it impossible to tell."  
  
"Finnick will know."  
  
"Three favorites to win, down in one day!" Caesar exults, when things are calm again.  
  
"Finnick wanted to wait," Mags mutters. He's trying to play a cautious game, but he isn't being allowed. "They drove him to challenge Trim and Jacquard before he was ready."  
  
"Two at the hand of Finnick Odair," Claudius summarizes. "One at the hand of Sheer. Both still alive, as is Trim, whose failure to take an overmatched Finnick is deemed inexplicable by some."  
  
"It's not inexplicable," Rudder says. "Finnick has a brilliant offense, and his defense is unconventional, but it works. He wasn’t strong enough to block most blows from the eighteen-year-olds with his trident when he was in training, so he tended to, in the first place, avoid letting them strike, and in the second, use the terrain as his defense. He’d trip his opponents over their own feet when he couldn’t overwhelm them. I’m not surprised Trim couldn’t land a blow, though I wish Finnick had been able to bring him down.”  
  
Mags finds this all very interesting. She’s heard it before, of course, during their weekly reviews of the trainees’ progress, but seeing Finnick in action is different. She’s never cared much about weapons technique before this, but Finnick is her boy. “What would you say about his defense against the mutts? I’m not the expert, but it looked like he was blocking with his trident there.”  
  
“Creatively,” Rudder points out. “I had Brine put him through some serious strength training, so he’s better off than he was a year ago, but he’s still only fourteen. If he’d waited four years, he’d have been unbeatable, but as it is, he’s having to get creative. Besides, I thought you taught him that, with the alligators."  
  
Mags only looks modest.  
  
"And not to vaunt," he accuses. “What was that with Trim?”  
  
She shakes her head. "No, no, vaunting's okay against a stronger opponent. I tell my students if they're feeling good about the way the fight is going, it's a sign they need not to get overconfident. If they're desperate and need to get away, anything they can do to make their enemy slip is fair game."  
  
Mags looks at the screen. "Right now the odds are still in Trim's favor."  
  


* * *

  
The object of their discussion has been calculating his own odds and finding them wanting against Finnick in the water. He could follow Finnick on foot along the bank and wait for him to emerge, but there are two problems with that idea. One is that all Finnick has to do is emerge on the other side. If Trim tries to swim across to catch him, Finnick has him where he wants him. The other is that Finnick might be leading him along the bank to another of his vine traps.  
  
Actually, there's only one problem with Trim following Finnick: Finnick obviously wants him to. Trim's confident he has the upper hand in any single combat, so he heads back toward the Cornucopia.  
  
On his way, he encounters Sheer, who's ranging in search of him.  
  
"You kill the bitch?" Trim demands.  
  
"You're asking if I completed my assignment?" she challenges him. "Yeah, I got assigned to take out one Career, and so she's out. But it takes three of you to get yourselves killed by one half-trained boy. Or maybe you finally got him, and that's why I heard a cannon go off after the anthem. Oh, wait," Sheer's voice rises in crescendo, "I haven't heard any cannons!"  
  
"If you know what's good for you, you'll shut up," Trim growls. "He's out there somewhere."  
  
"Which way did he go, did you see?"  
  
Trim points down the river and strides off. She nocks an arrow in her bowstring and falls in behind, letting Trim lead the way.  
  
Before they reach the bank, she's silently raised her bow and drawn the arrow back, and she takes her own district partner out with a shot to the unprotected back of his head. At this close range, she can't miss. With no armor proof against treachery, he can only half turn, gasp, and fall.  
  
"You've become a liability," Sheer tells his body. She turns around and heads back in the direction she came.  
  
There is outrage and shock in the crowd. Bad enough they were cheated of a fight to the death between Trim and Finnick, but taking out your own partner in an alliance is something of a taboo, until you're the last two left. That's partly sentiment and partly practicality. If you don't make it home but your partner does, your district still gets the food. 

It happens more often than people care to admit, though.  
  
"I'm guessing she's not that great with the bow, but she is _spectacular_ at positioning," Mags grudgingly admires. "She uses it because she feels safest with a distance advantage. When it comes to raw strength, she's even more outmatched than Finnick, even by Livia. She's actually extremely interesting. Trained with a sword and comfortable with it, based on what Finnick saw in the training room. But once she got into the arena, too overwhelmed with fear to get in close, choosing instead a weapon she's weaker with. Yet thinking through her fear and using her weapon extremely effectively. I'm betting I know who came up with the Cornucopia maneuvers. Why do they have to die, Rudder?" she sighs deeply.  
  


* * *

  
Sheer finds Finnick at the Cornucopia, because she knows where he must have headed. No need to waste time tracking him and stumbling into his traps.  
  
He sees her coming in the moonlight. She stops some distance away, and raises her bow to show him that she's armed. In return, Finnick shows her his trident. His back is to the Cornucopia.  
  
Livia died like that, so Sheer must be feeling okay about her odds. However, she knows Finnick has taken out two Careers and gotten away from the third, and she doesn't know how, so she's playing cautious.  
  
As is he, tired, hungry, and moving his left leg stiffly.  
  
"In your esteemed strategic opinion, is it worth fighting for the Cornucopia?" Rudder asks her. "Or should he leave it to her and go hunting the remaining tributes?"  
  
Mags is considering, but all coherent thought flees at the next words she hears.  
  
"You want to fight?" Sheer calls. "Or do you maybe want not to die a virgin?"  
  
Finnick knows when he's supposed to be caught off guard, so he doesn't lower his trident an inch or take his eyes from her. But he does grin. "Do you make this offer to all your victims?"  
  
"There's no rule against it," Sheer points out. Technically, she's right, but there's a reason no one lets down their guard long enough to have sex in the arena. Even rape is too risky, never mind what Sheer is pretending to propose.  
  
"No rule against killing your district partner as soon as you heard I had a longer spear?" He can't be sure she killed Trim, but he heard the cannon, and there has to be a reason Sheer's here alone.  
  
"Teenagers." Mags has been dealing with them her whole life. "Every tired joke is new to them and hilarious."  
  
"I think he's doing pretty well with the quips," Rudder defends him, "considering she's got a bow trained on him and she's the only one out there who has as many kills as he does."  
  
"Your spear man enough for me?" she challenges, not denying the accusation about Trim.  
  
"You wearing body armor?" Finnick wants to know in return. "Chastity belt?"  
  
"Come find out!" Sheer invites him.  
  
"Striptease, if you don't mind!" The banter is all very amusing, but it's not getting them anywhere.  
  
"Why didn't she take Trim's body armor?" Mags suddenly wonders.  
  
"Wouldn't fit her," Rudder answers. "Might still have given her some advantage, but she'd be vulnerable while putting it on and trying to adjust it. Too bad Finnick didn't get it. Not that he's a whole lot taller, but..."  
  
"I'd take anything right now," Mags agrees.  
  
"What would you do about the Cornucopia?" Rudder asks. The flirtatious standoff is continuing, but Finnick is starting to shift position gradually.  
  
"I think I'd let her have it. She has no one to guard her, and she's unlikely to leave it after this. Better to stick to his plan of not getting tied down by anything he doesn't need. He's had enough time to rifle it."  
  
Sheer is following Finnick with her arrow as he moves side to side, but he's not close enough for her comfort, and she's doesn't want to risk her ammunition on a moving target. She's trying to chase him off so she gets the spoils, not kill him. She prefers to take her opponents by surprise.  
  
Meanwhile, the banter flies back and forth.  
  
"I killed your district partner!"  
  
"And yours." Finnick sounds admiring. "Did you let them die virgins?"  
  
"I'm not big on necrophilia!"  
  
"Maybe not, but you seem interested in doing the penetration yourself. So am I, so I think I'll have to pass. Nothing personal, maybe next time!"  
  
While they're riposting back and forth, each trying to get the last word, they're testing each other's will to open the battle. Step by step, Finnick is pulling back and Sheer is advancing, but never closing the distance enough to risk shooting.  
  
"The other tributes are exhibiting a strange reluctance to kill this boy," Claudius marvels.  
  
"One wonders how serious that sex offer was," Caesar adds.  
  
"For fuck's sake." Rudder is disgusted. "It's like the commentators have never been in an arena. Oh, right, they haven't. She's got four arrows left, and that is not her weapon of choice. As long as she has it, the playing field is level. Once she wastes her ammunition, Finnick can run her down, no problem. She was the last of the Careers to reach the Cornucopia, and the only reason she didn't get taken out in the bloodbath was that she was on the far side of the circle from Finnick and the guy from Eleven."  
  
"She is a genius at positioning," Mags says as Sheer reaches the Cornucopia and Finnick pulls out of the center, still moving backwards and watching her. "I think she was standing in front of a patch of quicksand just now, trying to draw him in closer by making him prove his manhood."  
  
"Sheer's the genius?" Rudder says. "I was just wondering, you ever think Finnick has a seventy-year-old brain inside that fourteen-year-old head? Letting the insults go and giving her the Cornucopia without a fight, just because you're sitting out here thinking it's a good idea?"  
  
Mags chuckles. "It is eerie. He does borrow my brain from time to time, but he's not consistent with it, either. I'm not surprised he didn't let himself be provoked, since I did train him for that, but I am surprised he's not feeling confident enough to challenge her on his own terms. Maybe more tired than he's letting on."  
  
"Well, he doesn't need anything from the Cornucopia badly enough to risk his life for it. Though he's out of the zone now and his hip's back to bothering him."  
  
**Day Eight**  
  
There are only five tributes left on Day Eight. Sheer holds the Cornucopia unchallenged. The girl from Twelve is still in hiding. The boy from Six is hovering around the Cornucopia, weak with hunger and waiting for Sheer to sleep unguarded. The boy from Ten is foraging successfully, but avoiding the other tributes.  
  
Finnick is sound asleep beneath a pile of greenery. It's not especially impressive camouflaging, but there's no one left to hunt him.  
  
Every year, Mags tells her tributes to eat when they can and sleep when they can, because they never know when another chance will come. She can't always follow her own advice, though. Even once Finnick fell asleep, she was too tense to join him, alert for any sound that he's in danger. Logically, he's probably bought himself some breathing room, but the part of herself that would need to let down her guard can't quite believe it.  
  
Rudder looks like he snatched a couple hours, but it's hard to say.  
  
Barring any interference from the Gamemakers, this morning is likely to be quiet. "So about that genius of positioning," Rudder opens. "Two strategies made sense to me: staying put at the most desirable location in the arena, or hunting your enemy in a pair. How is throwing away your supplies and then your ally a genius move? Finnick could have taken anything from the Cornucopia. He could maybe even have held it, if he'd had a bit more time and been in a bit better shape."  
  
"I can't tell you for certain what was going through her head. But I can put a few things together. The Careers of other districts are trained to attack, not defend, as you noticed. Girls, on the other hand, are usually, not always, at a physical disadvantage that they have to compensate for."  
  
"So she was fleeing _and_ hunting?"  
  
"I think so," Mags says. "Fleeing because she was afraid, hunting because that's how she was trained and because action is an antidote to fear. Fear must have played a huge role in her taking out Trim, as well. She had the opportunity, it was getting close to the time when she was going to have to anyway, and now there are only two Careers left, her and Finnick. Believe me, Trim did not make her feel _that_ safe. Less so with each passing day. It was Trim's idea to start dissolving the pack, remember. In everything she's done, she's been both afraid _and_ trying to keep the upper hand. She's kept from panicking, and nothing she's done has been as risky as Finnick's attack on Jacquard, so I can't criticize her choices. I wish she were mine in a different year."  
  
Finnick wakes to find some seaweed-tinted bread beside him. The fact that the parachute didn't wake him isn't great, but he woke up after sleeping long and deeply, unguarded, so he got away with it.  
  
He lets himself eat a single piece, then goes to the river. The fish here are much too small to be effectively speared with something as large as his trident, so he constructs a weir from the wood and stones he finds. As the swimming fish and eels run afoul of his obstacle, he snatches them up in his net and tosses them ashore to thrash wildly until they die.  
  
Finnick's able to get quite a catch with relatively little effort this way, which is good, because once he's gutted and deboned the fish, he shoves the meat inside the rolls and wolfs them down, starving.  
  
"Mm, fish sandwiches," he says, with a delighted twinkle in his eye. "This place is just like home. But where's the sauce?"  
  
He keeps up a light and silly monologue, knowing the cameras will catch his quiet voice and amplify it for the viewers.  
  
"Although, it will _really_ only be like home once a shark leaps out onto my trident." That's a gamble, making suggestions to the Gamemakers, who might actually be itching to take him out at a moment's notice, but it's meant to make him look ready for anything. Like he does this all the time, and fighting mutts is nothing. "Like that one time..."  
  
It's an interesting ploy, putting on a show in hopes of earning a day of rest. Finnick's aware that if things get too boring, the Gamemakers like to start livening them up. He knows he's a good storyteller, and so he's going to entertain the audience.  
  
The boy from Ten comes close enough to hear him. Finnick's got his back protected, as always, and his trident in hand, so Mags isn't too bothered. Here's a chance to take out another opponent.  
  
The boy stops and conceals himself behind a bush, where Finnick can't see him even if he turns in that direction. He half closes his eyes and listens intently. Then suddenly his eyes widen, and he shakes his head.  
  
"He was hoping it was Six," is Mags' interpretation. "He's not taking on Finnick and his trident near the water."  
  
Slowly and as quietly as he can manage, the boy from Ten withdraws out of earshot.  
  
Finnick never heard him, so he's allowed an uninterrupted retreat. No fights on Day Eight.  
  
**Day Nine**  
  
An acidic rain starts falling in the late afternoon. The first tribute to feel the burning drops screams. The viewers aren't shown at first who's screaming, just a shot of the deadly wetlands, and the echoing sounds of a child being tortured.  
  
"Show Finnick!"  
  
"No, don't," hisses Mags. "If they're not showing him, then nothing's happening to him. That's not him screaming."  
  
"I know it's not!" Rudder mirrors her frustration.  
  
Sheer has taken refuge inside the Cornucopia with her supplies, and she's tense, but fine. The camera covers her for half a second before showing the boy from Six running through the forest, maddened by pain. His face is melting from the bone. Then he crashes suddenly to the ground.  
  
He appears at first just to have tripped, but then the camera angle changes, shooting straight down at the ground. He can now be seen lying at the bottom of a hole that's been dug and covered with leaves. With him is the girl from Twelve, who's been subsisting on a diet of bugs.  
  
It's a good hole, braced inside by pieces of wood to keep it from collapsing, and boasting a small air vent separately dug out the side, but the realism of its camouflage proved to be her demise. The acid rain now falls unchecked into her shelter.  
  
With nowhere to run and no strength to escape, the two children huddle at the bottom. In theory, they should start trying to kill each other, but instead they cling together, seeking comfort in their final moments.  
  
A cannon goes off to indicate that one of them hasn't made it. But no hovercraft arrives yet, because there's a living tribute entangled with the dead. Whoever is still alive is left in the muddy hole with the body of the other, while the merciless rain continues to fall.  
  
The boy from Ten has abandoned the trees and headed for the refuge of the Cornucopia. He's lucky enough to be approaching from the closed end, so Sheer can't see him coming. But he's gasping in pain, running with his head down, and so she hears him. She grasps her sword and moves just to the edge of the metal roof sheltering her. He can't have much of a weapon.  
  
"I know where the kid from Four is!" he shouts as he approaches. "We can kill him."  
  
"Where?" Sheer calls.  
  
"Let me in!"  
  
She tries peering around the edge, but she can't see without exposing herself to the rain. She takes the risk of withdrawing the point of her sword. "Come in."  
  
No sooner is he in, unarmed, than the sword slides through his throat.  
  
"He's in or near the water," Sheer tells his dying body. "And why would I go there, when sooner or later he'll to have to come here?"  
  
The camera takes advantage of that moment to cut to the sluggish river. No Finnick in sight. Just the small ripples of the rain falling onto the surface. Then, in slow motion, it zooms in on a metal object protruding at an angle from the water. Some sort of a tube, it looks like, wide enough for breathing through. Just beneath the surface, something floats that looks very much like a human body. He's not safe from hunters, but the other tributes are not the biggest threat right now.  
  
"Did he get that from the Cornucopia?!" Rudder shouts.  
  
"Must have. It was hard to see what he was doing in there." They watch the tube drift downstream. "The water's getting more contaminated by the minute."  
  
"I'm more worried about what's falling into that tube," Rudder frets. "He's had the sense to angle it, but...he's going to ingest some of that rain."  
  
"I honestly can't think of a better plan. Look at all the plant material in the arena. It's being shredded. We'll see what state he's in when he emerges."  
  
Just after sunset, a cannon goes off. The girl from Twelve, sheltered first by her leaves and then by the body of the boy who landed on her, has lasted longer than he did, but beaten away by the acid, whatever injuries might have been inflicted by the falling boy, and nine days and a lifetime of hunger, her body at last gives out.  
  
Much to Mags' dismay, the odds on Finnick are falling again. It's down to him and Sheer, and hers are higher than they've ever been. She's uninjured, holds the Cornucopia and all its supplies, and she still has her bow and arrows if he approaches.  
  
No one is surprised when a heavy parachute drifts from the sky, holding a bundle of four arrows. District One always gets a lot of sponsors. Not as many as Finnick, if that's the best they could do, but even a few arrows that aren't top of the line should be enough to kill one boy.  
  
The boy is now tentatively emerging from the water. He starts by letting his left hand poke free, then immediately pulls it under to evaluate. Then he lets it breech again and remain above water, fingers waggling. When he doesn't feel anything, he slowly pulls his head above water and removes the pipe.  
  
The killing rain has stopped.  
  
"He didn't start with his face," Rudder approves.  
  
As soon as he realizes he's free, Finnick throws his trident onto the bank and crawls up after it. His eyes are closed and running tears, and his fingers sink deep into the mud as he tries to drag his body onto land.  
  
The sheer will to survive must have been keeping him still all this time, because now that the emergency has passed, Finnick curls in on himself in the mud. He's pressing his hands to his face in the urge one has to touch a source of pain. His mouth is wide open and no sound is coming out other than labored breathing. Either he simply can't cry out, or it would hurt too much.  
  
"Tree," Mags pleads urgently. "Tree." How can she go deal with sponsors when he could die any minute?  
  
As though he can hear her, Finnick slowly and painfully drags himself and his trident away from the exposed bank and into some kind of brush cover. He stays within easy reach of the water, though.  
  
All the official Games vendors say that no medication can be bought for the amount that he's bringing in from District Four. Bread, maybe, but there's no way Finnick can swallow food right now, even if he were faint with hunger.  
  
Capitol sponsorship money is coming in, albeit at a reduced rate since the standoff with Sheer, but it's still automatically being redirected to pay off the trident. And there's no more credit to be found. His showings against Trim and Sheer, while impressive in that he's still alive, have not inspired enough confidence to offset his injuries from the rain. He's back to being the underdog in everyone's mind except his mentors'. And even Mags fears that he might have provoked the Gamemakers to push him past his ability to survive.  
  
The mentors, of course, are not allowed to use their winnings to support their tributes, and that's one of the rules that doesn't get bent. There are systems in place to flag suspicious activity that suggests a mentor giving away prize money to someone willing to act as a sponsor during the Games.  
  
Mags is talking to everyone she can, trying every line of persuasion she can think of, but she isn't getting much help from Finnick. At one point, Rudder nudges her and wordlessly directs her attention to the nearest screen. He's been hovering by in case she needs him, letting her do the talking, while he keeps an eye on the screen.  
  
Finnick is looking up to the sky for salvation, blinking through the tears. She sees his lips move in an agonizing 'M'. He's trying to call her name for help, and he can't even do that.  
  
_I have nothing for you!_ He must know she wouldn't let him suffer a moment longer than necessary.  
  
Irrelevantly, Mags finds herself wishing she had gone to sleep last night. At least those nightmares she could have woken up from.  
  
"He can't fight like that," Rudder says as a toneless fact.  
  
"We'll have to see what we can do with what we have," Mags concludes.  
  
While Rudder keeps a watchful eye on the arena, she argues at length with the official Games medical consultant, trying to find _something_ they can afford. The consultant keeps insisting there's no way to know what the nature of the toxic rain was and how it would interact with any medicine topically applied, where exactly the damage to Finnick's body is, whether his lungs are affected, whether swallowing would be dangerous, whether he could even stand a topical application, and so on until she wonders aloud in frustration whether even the supposedly neutral Games staff are secretly betting on Sheer.  
  
"That's enough from you," the consultant says, advancing on her with his hand raised.  
  
She hears someone step up behind her and loom over them both, and she knows it's Rudder, silent and deadly. It's an unfortunate fact of life that Mags' size and gender open her up to physical threats like these, but at least the other victors of Four are fierce and reliable allies.  
  
The consultant instantly flinches and tries to hide it.  
  
"Just a painkiller?" Rudder tries. "Something simple you'd take for a headache? Just so he can fight for an hour. We can fix him up as soon as he gets out."  
  
"I've been working on that," Mags says, exasperated. "We're still arguing method of application, and whether his fund can afford anything that doesn't involve aggravating the wounds."  
  
She glances up at the screen, as she speaks. It's now split vertically between the two remaining tributes. Sheer is eating, keeping watch, pacing around the Cornucopia, stretching and staying limber, and staring piercingly into the distance to try to see what the trees and other plants conceal. Finnick is sitting with his arms around his knees, looking up at the sky, rocking quietly in pain. He's waiting as patiently as he can.  
  
"There is one thing," the consultant says, talking over Mags' head to Rudder. Rudder dwarfs them both, so she doesn't really see the point to this, but Finnick's life keeps her from asking the consultant if it will involve her putting a boot up his ass. "But it will risk making him sleep, so I didn't want to suggest it."  
  
"For how long?" She's getting desperate.  
  
He looks at her, annoyed. "You can't predict these things. Age, size, weight...something as simple as an adrenaline rush can throw off all the calculations. How much has he been eating?"  
  
"Nothing since last night," she answers. He slept all day and woke up to rain. "Some bread and fish yesterday, nothing the day of the fight with the Careers."  
  
"Then I wouldn't risk it, not if you don't want him collapsing in the middle of this fight. You're going to have get him some more funds for the oral injection, and even then, if his lungs are damaged, there's nothing short of surgery that will help him."  
  
"I hate people," Mags mutters as they walk away. "Around this time of year I hate all people." Except that Rudder has, without saying anything, suddenly turned into a friend over the last ten days. She's not even sure if it'll last, but watching him disintegrate into a bundle of nerves over the boy she's always thought of as hers, ask her constantly for commentary, and give her his unquestioning support, has been an experience she won't forget. The only thing that could make this year's Games less unbearable.  
  
Having failed to acquire any medicine, she and Rudder send him as much uncontaminated water as they can afford. She knows when the parachute descends he'll think she's found something for his throat, and her heart will break at the disappointment on his face, but survival comes first. Dehydration can kill. The note, with the two words that are all she's allowed, reads  
  
_Clean water._  
  
_-M._  
  
“He'll drink through the pain,” Rudder assures her.  
  
“I've heard about that part of training,” Mags agrees.  
  
When the anthem starts, marking the end of Day Nine, Finnick frantically rubs his eyes clear of tears and watches. When the three victims of the acid rain have been shown, he raises a single finger. Whether he means that the tribute from One stands between him and home, or that only one tribute does, he's saying that he knows what he needs to do.  
  
**Day Ten**  
  
Since the encounter with Finnick, Sheer has been sleeping sitting up in the Cornucopia. But she's also been going into the Cornucopia sometimes when she's not sleeping, just so her movements don't become predictable. She puts on her night vision goggles as soon as it gets dark, hoping Finnick decides he has the advantage at night. She spends most of her time outside, though, so that she doesn't get taken by surprise. And last night, she didn't sleep at all. Both she and Finnick have to know that time is on her side, and so he will come to her.  
  
The situation has given Finnick one advantage: he slept last night. Restlessly, true, while he tossed in feverish dreams, but when he rises in the morning, it's done him some good. At least, it looked last night like he had no choice but to spend the night where he was, and this morning like he has the option of moving.  
  
"Surely that means his lungs are fine," Mags prays, without confidence. She's no doctor to weigh specific likelihoods, but even she knows in general that people collapse and die for no apparent reason, from internal injuries.  
  
Finnick looks like he barely has the strength to lift his trident, between hunger, fever, and pain, but his hand closes around the shaft. He gets to his knees and then his feet. He leans against a tree briefly to steady himself, and he looks ahead to his destination.  
  
Judging by the direction he's facing, he's put the river between himself and Sheer, forcing her to cross it if she wants to come to him. Mags is past nodding in approval. All she can do is watch, helplessly.  
  
He raises his left hand to his damaged mouth, and presses the lightest of touches from his lips toward the sky.  
  
This time, he's not asking or thanking. He's telling Mags he understands.  
  
Rudder looks away, giving her a semblance of privacy.  
  
Standing on the far bank of the river, Finnick hurls his trident across, spearing a tree. He doesn’t want to swim with it this time, and he must be almost entirely certain Sheer is standing with her back to the Cornucopia, not lurking nearby, ready to take him at a moment's notice. On the off chance that she is, she'll first have to yank it out of the tree if she wants it. And he's showing off his aim and the last of his strength to the audience. Performer to the end.  
  
"He's in the zone?" Mags wants to know.  
  
"Not enough." Donn might have said yes, but Rudder's like her: brutally honest.  
  
On the other side of the river, Finnick has more trouble retrieving it than he should, but he doesn't look dismayed by his weakness.  
  
"I thought he'd at least have the strength advantage when he faced her," Mags laments.  
  
"Do you think she's smarter?" Rudder asks, indignant.  
  
"On her own, probably. But he's had me." Honesty trumps modesty.  
  
Finnick stops on the way to the Cornucopia to check his traps. Most are rotted by the acid rain, but he finds one that was advantageously positioned below some thick foliage that took the brunt of the onslaught from the heavens. It's still intact, and after he makes a few adjustments, he has a net again.  
  
His mentors breathe a little easier. Mags is too tired to give detailed commentary aloud any more, and Rudder respects that. But she's glad to see Finnick's wide-ranging reconnaissance and baiting of the terrain in the first few days paying dividends.  
  
Sheer, of course, hasn't slept since the anthem. If Finnick was hoping to catch her napping when he stepped from cover into the center of the arena, he has no such luck. He advances on stealthy and quick-moving feet while she's on the far side of the Cornucopia, but his advance is hindered by yesterday evening's rain. The ground is far boggier and the wet patches far more dangerous than on the first day. He hasn't gotten in very close before her course brings him into her line of sight, and she raises her bow at him.  
  
So neither of them benefits from the element of surprise.  
  
With eight arrows, she can afford to try a shot at this distance. If she misses, she might hold her fire for a time, but if she makes it, she's just given herself an easy win. Her sword is belted to her waist, but if she has to use it, she'd better hope his fever is high indeed.  
  
Finnick's net, swiped quickly to the side, deflects her first arrow, buying him only a few seconds to continue his advance. He's doing his best to weave side to side, trying to present a difficult target, but both his own weakness and the state of the ground are against him.  
  
Two. Three. Four. They come rapid-fire, but the swinging net and Finnick's dodging defeat them all. She can't draw fast enough to break through this unorthodox shield that everyone is surprised is even working.  
  
But surely, by eight he'll have wearied enough or his net torn enough that one gets through. She just has to keep up the pressure.  
  
Knowing this, Finnick pulls back slightly, to boos from those in the crowd who like a quick, bloody finale. The ones who like a slow buildup of tension, some display of intellect on both sides, are shifting eagerly in their seats.  
  
The retreat gives them both a breathing space. Finnick lowers the arm holding his net aloft, and Sheer relaxes the string of her bow and lowers her arms as well. She rests her left hand briefly on the hilt of her sword, probably just for reassurance, as she's right-handed and makes no move to draw it.  
  
Rudder glances at Mags, wanting to ask if she has any ideas. She sees the movement out of the corner of her eye and shakes her head slightly. If any mutts come charging out of the trees into the clearing, Finnick is dead. If he gets in too close, he's dead, unless Sheer's completely incompetent. If he pulls out now or even stays put too long, he will be killed by the Gamemakers, no question. Mags is just waiting for the mutts to appear to drive Finnick into shooting range. He won't be able to play chicken with them the way he did with the lightning bolts.  
  
What are Sheer's weaknesses? Hand-to-hand combat, but she's winning the game of positioning. Lack of sleep, but they're both running on adrenaline. Fear. Fear, but how to use it? He can't even talk. He can probably barely think through the pain, and if he's not also afraid, he doesn't have the sense of a goose.  
  
Can he lure her into trident range, or drive her away from the Cornucopia? Can he get her to waste enough of her ammunition to level the playing field? He can't know how many arrows she has in store.  
  
He's gathering up the handful of arrows he does have. He uses his trident to sweep them along the ground, while keeping his net at the ready and his eyes on her.  
  
It's making her nervous, because she doesn't know what he's up to. Does he have a bow or the ability to make one? She raises her bow again and takes aim.  
  
Finnick's damaged mouth can't grin very well, but Mags knows that look when he crooks his finger at Sheer, inviting her to send more arrows over. Sheer hesitates. Is he bluffing? Surely he's bluffing.  
  
Five. Six. Sheer's not going to hold her fire because someone's playing reverse psychology on her. But he's too far from her, and it's a mistake. They go flying past him, one on either side.  
  
Finnick now puts the back of his wrist to his trident and cuts a long, shallow line in the flesh. Using the blood that oozes from it, he paints six tally marks on his forehead. Deliberately, eyes on her the whole time.  
  
"Definitely in the zone now," Mags says.  
  
"He can't feel that," Rudder agrees.  
  
It's so bizarre Sheer can only stare. What is this, blood as war paint? A notch in his belt--or on his face--for each arrow she wastes?  
  
But now she's getting indecisive. He wants her to shoot, but he wants her not to shoot. Shooting hasn't gotten her anywhere so far, but not shooting will get her killed even faster. Unless she can hold this standoff until the Gamemakers intervene, but then she's gambling on being able to handle whatever they throw in better than he can.  
  
The audience is shooting contradictory advice that most likely echoes the thoughts racing through Sheer's head. "Shoot!" "Don't shoot! Use your sword, you're better with it!"  
  
" _I_ could shoot better than that!" one person yells, and he's seconded by jeers.  
  
Sheer breaks the tension with, "Are you actually insane, or just pretending?" The last time they bantered, she drove him off, so she reverts to what worked before. She has to know, though, that this is the final showdown of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games, and the participants will not be permitted to withdraw.  
  
He signs at her with one finger.  
  
"The first one?" She stares in disbelief. "Yeah. I can see that. Okay, I'll keep sending you arrows, and you keep wounding yourself. Deal?"  
  
Finnick gives her a thumbs up.  
  
Sheer glances down at the ground. The action signals to Finnick that she means to advance, and before she can look up, he's bounded forward over two puddles of acid before he comes to a stop. He knows the terrain directly in front of him, because he's just retreated back over it a couple minutes ago, and so he doesn't need to plan his course.  
  
The movement startles her into looking up. Her body language shows that she'd planned her own advance, but now she has to rethink the distances involved. Why is he moving forward into arrow range? Her advance was meant to push him into a retreat.  
  
"He's psyching her out" is Mags' interpretation.  
  
"Out-crazying her" is Rudder's. "I always knew he had it in him. She couldn't faze him with that crazy sex stunt."  
  
Eight arrows at the same time, Finnick could never survive. Against one at a time from an inexpert archer, with only two left, he has a chance at reaching her before she gets a hit, but not a great chance.  
  
Since Sheer hesitated, her back is still to the Cornucopia when Finnick bears down in earnest, and so she has nowhere to run. She fires, but fumbles the first shot from nerves. Seven. Eight. The final arrow would have made contact, but he's thrown himself to the ground mid-flight and in the same move, hurled his trident at her. He couldn't have thrown it after landing, because he lands with a cry of pain, unable to even roll properly.  
  
Against the incoming trident, she should dodge sideways, but every instinct tells her to leap backwards as she reaches for her sword. The Cornucopia doesn't give her the leeway she needs, and the trident pierces her belly, slamming her up against the metal surface that she trusted to protect her. Finnick's hauling himself onto his hands and knees, readying himself to come in close for a second strike, but it's not necessary. She's already crumpling to the ground, waiting for death. Death will come slowly, so Finnick draws his knife and administers a mercy kill.  
  
"How the hell did she lose that?" The mentors of the other districts are lining up to shake hands with District Four. "She had every advantage."  
  
They're both supposed to stand up and accept the congratulations, but Mags is still frozen in her seat, staring in shock at the screen. Her mind is completely blank. Rudder steps up for her.  
  
"She didn't, really," Rudder tells them. "She only seemed to. She had the tactical advantage, but not psychological. If she'd had more experience with that bow, that would never have worked on her. She only took up the bow because she was more nervous than she expected when someone tried to kill her for the first time in her life, and her nerves were what got her in the end. She very nearly pulled off a victory with a weapon she was relatively weak at, and that is impressive."  
  
"What she did has never been done," says Mags, who's finally gathered herself together a little.  
  
"Well, fourteen-year-old victor, that's never been done either," says Blight, of District Seven. Finnick didn't get either of his tributes, so he's willing to chat.  
  
"I'm sure Mags taught him how to psych out your opponents with your own blood." Rudder's proving to have a deadpan humor that's all the more wicked for being so well-hidden.  
  
Mags fails to respond at all. She's shaking hands mechanically, nodding at whatever congratulations anyone gives.  
  
"Oh, you mean he was making shit up?" Rudder queries innocently, with a sidelong look at his partner. "Someone must have told him that no one ever wins the Games except by the fluke of crazy shit that works versus crazy shit that doesn't."  
  


* * *

  
Finnick's miraculously in one piece when he lands at the Capitol and saunters into the viewing area.  
  
Mags grabs him before anyone else can get in close. Rudder shadows her, but he hangs back until she's ready to share.  
  
"I promised myself," Finnick says into the hair on the top of her head, the words tumbling out so fast that she can barely make them out. "The first words out of the arena I said to you would be 'I told you so.' Stop crying. I told you so."  
  
She's feeling his forehead with the back of her hand, touching his cheek questioningly, frantically checking his wrist and hip for signs of injury.  
  
"No, no, I'm fine. They fixed everything up on the hovercraft on the way here, even fed me. Everything was easy to treat, they said, though it wouldn't have been if it had gone on much longer. Still hurt like hell--I'm so sorry about the last day. I couldn't plan, I couldn't think, I couldn't move after my mouth and throat were injured, and then when I woke up, I knew I had to move or I'd never move again." He's babbling. "I'm sorry, I knew I could take her, I just had to scare her into shooting badly-"  
  
" _You're_ sorry!" Mags finally gets something past the lump in her throat. "I couldn't send you anything. You're not accountable to me for anything you did in there, you hear me?"  
  
"Oh, I knew you couldn't." Finnick's arms tighten around her. "The trident, right? I knew I had to use it. None of the tributes wanted to be there as much as I did. I promise you. That's why I won." He releases Mags to look around at the crowd forming behind her.  
  
Stepping up to them, Rudder claps Finnick on the shoulder. "Nothing fazed you."  
  
Mags laughs shakily. "Not that the same can be said of him. You should have seen your arms teacher. He was a nervous wreck, I tell you."  
  
Finnick looks up at Rudder. He stares back down at his student, impassive as ever.  
  
"I don't believe it." He winks at Rudder. "Mags is such a liar, isn't she?"  
  
Trapped, Rudder can hardly agree with an outrageous statement like that without betraying himself. He chooses instead not to react at all, turning away and leaving them to their embarrassing emotional displays.  
  
Finnick can't stop grinning while he talks and shakes hands, and he's shifting endlessly from foot to foot, unable to contain this energy. Mags, for her part, can't take her hands from him. She keeps cupping her hands around his face, as though she can hold that smile. Every time she starts to let go, she brings them back.  
  
Again and again she opens her mouth to say something, but no words come.  
  
"You're so serious," Finnick teases her. "I think I know who the nervous wreck was."  
  
He folds her into a second embrace, which she gratefully steps into. "Stay with me," Mags finally whispers. It's the only thing she can put into words now. "Stay with me, Finnick."  
  
"I'm not going anywhere," Finnick assures her, still laughing.  
  
"Today," she insists, taking a step back. "Promise me."  
  
" _S_ _o_ serious." When she frowns, he looks put out but gives in. "I promise, if that's what you want."  
  
His smile fades, but she's bought herself some time to warn him. Of what, she's not certain. Only that every hair on her neck prickled when Finnick defied the Gamemakers and walked toward the Cornucopia at his own pace, ignoring the lightning. They wouldn't have hesitated to take out most tributes, but Finnick had his trident in hand and had announced his intention to take on the Careers in combat. He's still soaring high on his own feelings of invincibility, and Mags is determined to catch him before he crashes mid-flight.  
  
If she wants to warn him, she needs to get him in a very receptive mood, and his current ego trip is not exactly conducive to that. So she needs to build it into the ego trip.  
  
Then she has an idea. "Rudder!" she calls, but he's too far away and the room is too loud.  
  
Mags glances at Finnick, who's louder and a natural at getting people's attention. He laughs.  
  
"Don't you owe Finnick a drink?" she reminds Rudder, when he comes over to see what Finnick wants. "Didn't I hear something to that effect?"  
  
Rudder raises his eyebrow. "Now?"  
  
"Well, we're hardly going to see him once the media blitz starts," she excuses. "I've already had to beat off his prep team with sticks to get them to leave us alone together for twenty minutes."  
  
Already it's difficult to talk. The bar in the viewing area is far too exclusive to be swarming with admirers, and half of the people in it are affiliated with other districts, but everyone's having to come over and pay their respects at least once, grudgingly or enthusiastically. Finnick's showing a natural facility for carrying on several conversations at once, while looking equally delighted to be in all of them.  
  
Fortunately, no one's paying any attention to Mags. "Let's go find a table."  
  
The first thing Mags has to do when they sit down is grab Finnick's attention away from Rudder, who, you never know, might actually start talking. As unlikely as that is, she's seen unlikelier from him in the past week.  
  
"You did a very good job of keeping them underestimating you in the arena," Mags begins.  
  
Finnick glows, and Mags holds up a finger to say she isn't done yet.  
  
There are two sides of Finnick's personality: the one that's gloriously, heedlessly self-confident, and the one that she trained to pay attention to his environment and be on the lookout for danger at all times. The part that's fourteen, in other words, and the part that's had to grow up rather faster.  
  
She holds his eyes significantly, and speaks slowly, with emphasis. "As your mentor, I'm telling you that you might continue to find that a useful talent as long as you're being watched. How you do it, I leave up to you. You're a better performer than I am. You might want to play up your youth for the next few days. It's worked well so far."  
  
Finnick glances away from her and around the bar, where half the occupants are hovering and waiting for a chance to talk to him. "I mean to be watched for the rest of my life!" he protests.  
  
"How long do you want the rest of your life to be?" Mags asks him. "You just won yourself the chance to turn fifteen, but the perils for victors are different, and you haven't been trained for them."  
  
"And why is that?" he demands.  
  
Mags has to communicate that she is not free to talk openly. "The media is going to descend on you in a few minutes, so you'll have to do this on your own before we get home and I can explain everything. But if ever you trusted me, trust that I wouldn't make anything more difficult for you without a reason. And remember why Livia didn't trust me." A reminder that Mags is fully, one hundred percent, devoted to Finnick.  
  
Finally, finally, the need for caution is dawning on Finnick. "Am I safe?" he mouths.  
  
Mags won't lie to him. She just makes a face.  
  
"No more or less than usual, then," Finnick translates. "Okay." His voice is shaky. There was no way he could have seen this coming. Like a change of clothes, he slips out of celebration and back into survival mode, pumping his mentor for all the advice he can get. "What do you want me to do?"  
  
"Party. Talk to Caesar this evening. Meet a lot of people. Don't drink too much or give too much away. Above all, remember that you are very, very young."  
  
Staring into her face, trying to read every nuance of expression, Finnick nods slightly. "Okay. Young and what?" Young and vulnerable, he looks right now.  
  
In a gesture that will be read simply as affection by anyone watching, Mags reaches out and places her hand on his right arm. "You didn't win with this." Then she lifts her hand to his face and taps his temple. "You won with this. Don't let them see this." She taps again for emphasis.  
  
Finnick takes her hand as she withdraws it and squeezes his understanding. He puts his smile back on, looking once again like he can handle anything in the world. Whether it's real confidence or bravado is impossible even for Mags to tell.  
  
"Oh, and one other thing." Mags almost chokes with fear as it occurs to her. "You know you can't tell Caesar or anyone how you really got reaped? Even if they let you get away with it."  
  
Finnick rolls his eyes, seeing more of his ego trip vanish with each word from her mouth. "You're kidding. Why on earth not? It's like we have to pretend we don't train when everyone knows we do?"  
  
Her eyes widen in dismay. "What will happen the next time District Four can't get a volunteer? Every single time we can't get a volunteer. _Think._ "  
  
"So...when does the fun begin?" he demands in frustration.  
  
"I mean it, Finnick. The fun begins now, but if you're asking when you stop having to watch your back, the answer is never. Think!"  
  
"Fine," Finnick groans. "One and Two will hunt them down first thing. They're dead anyway."  
  
"One and Two not hunting you down first thing saved your life! You want to be a mentor, rule one is you don't endanger your own tributes."  
  
"You have anything you want to add to this?" Finnick turns on Rudder, who's been sitting with his arms folded, watching. Mags had all but forgotten he was there.  
  
"I have no idea what she's going on about. Except for that last bit, which should have been obvious to you. But otherwise, I haven't had any idea what she's been going on about since you stepped into the arena, and she's predicted practically every single thing that happened."  
  
In another mercurial flash, Finnick re-adopts his good mood. "Well, I'd love to hear these predictions. But just now, I think I see my prep team bearing down on us." He pushes back his chair from the table. "If that's all?"  
  
Mags sets aside her worry and takes her own advice. She's going to trust him. Raising her fingers to her lips, she sends Finnick a kiss. "Come home."  
  


* * *

  
Always relegated to the position of observer and mostly glad of it, Mags watches Finnick's post-victory interview with Caesar Flickerman. She's alone in her room after second-guessing her decision to stick to him all day. He's pretty tractable if handled right, but handling him involves a lot of praise at key moments. Leaving him on his own to navigate the aftermath like an adult is, hopefully, the right kind of praise for now.  
  
"I've always been completely impulsive," she watches Finnick admit to Caesar gaily. "I'm sure if they hadn't called me, I'd have volunteered eventually."  
  
Well, young and innocent is hardly going to fly. Young and irresponsible, then, may just be enough to save him.  
  
"So you're not a big planner, is what you're telling us?" Caesar asks. "More of a live-for-the-moment kind of guy?"  
  
"I usually find myself doing whatever seems like a good idea at the time. Worked so far, right?" Finnick turns to the audience and spreads his hands wide, asking. They cheer their agreement.  
  
To Mags, he looked extremely calculating in the arena, but she knows how many years of planning went into every decision he made. Even Rudder overlooked the significance of a lot of those decisions. So maybe it won't be hard at all to convince the powers of the Capitol.  
  
"So, do tell," Caesar begins. "I think we're all dying to know...What were you thinking when you were advancing on the tributes from Districts One and Two?" The television projects Finnick mid-stride, lightning flashing in the background. A surge of appreciation rises from the live audience.  
  
"You want the truth?" Finnick asks, grinning ear to ear. He's in his element.  
  
"Please," Caesar encourages him.  
  
Finnick again looks away from Caesar and out at the audience, inviting them to share in his laughter. " _Oh, shit_!" The crowd goes wild. " _Now what am I going to do?_ "  
  
Mags silently thanks Caesar for giving Finnick a chance to interpret his actions in a favorable light. Negotiating is not acceptable. Dragging your feet certainly is.  
  
"See, when you're me," Finnick touches his chest, "you spend all your life alternating between 'I can do _anything_ ,' and, ten minutes later, 'What have I gotten myself into and how do I get out?'"  
  
Finnick's laughing at himself so outrageously is absolutely endearing him to the audience. The crowd in Caesar's studio isn't, ultimately, what matters, but it definitely helps. You can't tell anything from Caesar, who shows equal enthusiasm for all his guests, no matter how unlikely, but he's not having to work very hard tonight to make Finnick look good.  
  
"We did see you master your impulses at least once," Caesar reminds Finnick.  
  
"Oh yes," Finnick acknowledges. "Sheer, lethal and seductive. But I promised myself I'd make up for my self-restraint after I left the arena alive." He spreads his arms wide. "Here I am!"  
  
There's no holding the audience back after that. Mags laughs and lets go of her dread.  
  
A few minutes later, very unintentionally, she falls asleep in her bed watching television. She's woken by a voice intruding into what had been a dreamless sleep.  
  
"Oh, darling, I'd love nothing better, but Mags is a worrier. I think it'll be a few days before it really sinks in that I'm in one piece. And she's getting older. I'm going to check in on her, and then if I get the chance, I'll come down again later."  
  
The automatic doors to her rooms are halfway open, and Finnick is slowly retreating inside them, expressing his reluctance and giving his regrets with every step.  
  
If he believes he's humoring an old lady, then she's annoyed with him, but she'll take what she can get. If he's coming up with a story to cover the fact that he's consulting with his mentor, then he's a brilliant actor, and she may never need to worry about him again.  
  
The bed bounces when Finnick lands on it. "Well?"  
  
Mags stops grinding the sleep out of her eyes and looks at him. To the casual observer, he looks like he's had a long night, with bloodshot eyes and makeup a bit smudged. To her, he looks ragged and on edge, running on adrenaline and waiting for the crash.  
  
"I'm not the judge, Finnick," Mags tells him. "I wasn't there, and I couldn't watch the people who matter. But from what I saw, I'm cautiously optimistic. Besides, I trust you on your own with just a few hints beforehand. You're good at what you do."  
  
Finnick's shoulders visibly go down a notch. "I only had one drink, plus the one Rudder bought me earlier," he tells her, eager for more praise and reassurance. "I got the server to slip me something a little less alcoholic after that. Claiming my age, of course."  
  
Mags shakes her head in admiration. "How do you always get people to do things for you?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Finnick throws a pillow in her direction. "Are you kidding me? Everyone does everything you say."  
  
"No, three victors and sometimes Rudder do everything I say. Not strangers. You just think so because they're the four people you spend the most time with. Though I'm starting to realize I don't know Rudder at all."  
  
"Yeah, you said-"  
  
"And I will tell you," Mags promises, "but not tonight. It's too long and I'm too tired to relive your time in the arena."  
  
"I hear you made some pretty spot-on predictions, so maybe I should ask someone who was watching both of you. I'll ask Donn." Finnick jerks in surprise. "Where is Donn?"  
  
"He went home after Livia died. He wasn’t sitting with us. I had him supporting her so I could give you my full attention." In theory, the mentors are supposed to remain until a victor is crowned, but it's another benefit of the flexibility that goes to One, Two, and Four. With two mentors from Four here today, one male and one female, no one's going to complain if there aren't three, or five.  
  
Finnick has the grace to look regretful and touched for all of one second, before he repays her full attention with his. "Tired? Was it a long ten days?" Then he takes in the crumpled pillow and bedcovers. "Were you sleeping? I wanted to talk to you."  
  
"Well, I'm not going anywhere, so lie down." Mags pats the bed beside her.  
  
Finnick stretches out and pulls a pillow down under his head. He's silent a minute. "Did they show immediately after the mutts?"  
  
Mags nods, but when he doesn't react, she opens her eyes and looks over to him, to find that his eyes are closed too. "When you were shaking because it was all over and you'd survived?" she says instead.  
  
"That. I feel like that now, but I can't seem to fall apart this time. And I'm not sure if it's over?"  
  
"It's not. But we'll talk more when we're home." She puts her hand on his head and runs her fingers through his hair. It's stiffer than usual with gel. "Meanwhile, sleep as much as you can. You're going to have a long few days before we leave, and you won't have much time to let down your hair and fall apart."  
  
"I want to, but I can't." Then the mattress rocks, and by half lifting her eyelids, Mags can see he's shifted up on one elbow. "Speaking of hair. My prep team was very insistent on a pretty boy presentation. I wanted to go for rugged and manly. Normally I can get them to do what I want, but this time it was like they had orders from higher up. I don't know which higher-up cares about fashion," he says very pointedly, "but I thought I'd ask."  
  
"Well, if you're young, thoughtless, and vain," Mags says blandly, in case the room is bugged, "it goes well with those traits. I think it's a good self-presentation for you, and you know I wouldn't meddle in anything except with your best interests in mind."  
  
"You're going to have to explain this whole mentor thing to me when we get home," Finnick grumbles in a tone that promises that the confrontation is only delayed, not averted. "So I have to be like Brine? Rudder's much cooler."  
  
Mags strokes his hair again. _Do I deserve you trusting me this much? Shouldn't you be rebelling more?_ But he's never known a world except the one in which everyone wants him dead and his life depends on only a handful of protectors who've been through the same thing. She wishes he felt safe enough to rebel.  
  
"Is Brine putting on an act?" he mumbles into the bedspread. He's now slumped down again.  
  
"No, I don't think he's smart enough. But I do think you are. I think you enjoy outwitting everyone around you," she teases.  
  
"I resemble that remark." Finnick pauses, and then jumps in, "And before you say anything, no, I won't underestimate anyone, no matter how air-headed they seem. If I can act, so can someone else."  
  
"You act better than I do. I just count on being the very quiet, five-foot short old lady everyone overlooks. It works, except when I'm trying to get you medication."  
  
"I'm going to be tall,” Finnick announces. “I'm going to be six three." Rudder is six foot three. "And _then_ I'm going to be rugged and manly."  
  
"You do that," she tells him gently, amused. As fast as that, he's sound asleep, not disturbed even when she pulls a blanket up to his shoulders.  
  
He'll always be her child.

 


	2. Annie

  
"I hate this," Mags tells Donn. Every year, she tries to decide which part of her life is worse, forcing unprepared strangers' children into the arena, or losing the ones she spent years toughening up and secretly loving.  
  
For the Seventieth Hunger Games, she's got one of each: Annie Cresta and Evan Gallagher. Annie left Mags trembling and biting back tears, Evan stretching his legs and preparing for the dash to the Cornucopia.  
  
When the gun goes off, Mags and Donn are sitting in the premium viewing area of the Capitol. It's reserved for those who are affiliated with the Games: mentors, bookies, Capitol escorts for each district, a variety of Games officials, and certain classes of sponsors. And, of course, security guards. There is not one of those groups of people that has never been responsible for a fistfight during the Games.  
  
The viewing area is contained within a dome large enough to give the appearance of being out of doors, yet climate-controlled for comfort. There are places to sit alone or in small groups, and places to mingle.  
  
For the most part, the people who are affiliated with a certain district stick together and avoid other districts. Mags, Donn, and Candy sit together on a couch in front of a screen and talk quietly among themselves. Every year, Mags and Donn exchange commentary, trying to learn as much as they can to benefit future tributes. It's also, though neither of them admits it, a natural outlet for their tension.  
  
Evan heads straight for the Cornucopia. He keeps going until he finds a mace, and then he has to fight his way out. Brutal and unsubtle, he does.  
  
At the fringes of the clearing, he finds Annie, who's waiting just out of sight. Her eyes are wide in her face and her hands are clenched to keep from shaking, but she's doing her best to keep her fear under control.  
  
They head into the woods together. At a certain point, Evan throws down the supplies he collected at the Cornucopia and sits down to inspect them.  
  
"Should we keep going?" Annie suggests timidly.  
  
"Yes!" Mags seconds, exasperated. "Find water and cover your backs!"  
  
Evan throws a pack in her direction. "Let me explain how this relationship works. You're going to die in the next few days. Until then, you are going to eat my bread, since the odds of you having any sponsors are slim. I am going to hunt and forage, since the odds of you killing so much as an animal are even slimmer. I am going to fight anyone who comes after us, since--don't make me laugh. In return, you are going to not get in the way, and try not to get me killed off. Got it?"  
  
Annie flinches, nodding her agreement.  
  
"Too much ego," Mags says tightly. "He's showing off that he's not afraid of anything while she's afraid of everything, but she's afraid of the right things."  
  
Annie leans against a tree and helps him go through the packs. Mags is glad to see that. There isn't much she's been able to teach the poor girl in the few days they had together, but "back to tree" was simple to instill.  
  
"No rope?" Annie mutters as she empties the last one.  
  
"Not unless you found some in the Cornucopia," Evan snaps. It's cruel, as he knows she didn't go in.  
  
The first tribute to stumble on them, at sunset, doesn't stand a chance. He tries to avoid them, but Evan snatches up his mace and runs him down. A cannon goes off.  
  
Annie sits quietly and listens. She jerks when she hears the cannon, but she keeps her face relatively still at the sounds of murder. To her credit, she hasn't panicked yet.  
  
That night, Evan tells her, "I'll keep first watch." It's an order, not an offer.  
  
Annie doesn't argue. She finds a large, leafy bush, and slides under it to sleep as well concealed as possible.  
  
When it's her turn to watch, she starts climbing a tree to a branch not far over her head. "Better vantage point," she explains.  
  
Evan glares up at her. "Really hard to run or fight from there, but really easy to let someone come along and kill me without noticing you."  
  
"No, I'll wake you up, I promise."  
  
"What, and alert them to your presence? Or maybe you're planning to kill me yourself."  
  
"What do I stand to gain from your death?!" Annie demands in frustration. "Look, if I were a threat to you, I'd sit next to you and stab you in your sleep as quietly as I could. I wouldn't climb a tree and put so much distance between us that you'd hear me before I could get close."  
  
Evan humphs and lies down under the tree. "Drop a pinecone if you hear anything. I know you're afraid of everything, but try not to wake me up over every squirrel."  
  
They survive the night with no mishaps, and in the wee hours of the morning, before the sun is up, Evan announces that they're going hunting. They can hear sounds in the distance suggestive of other tributes.  
  
"Should we try to get some food first?" Annie tries. "In case it's a while before we have another chance, if we go stirring up a hornets' nest?"  
  
Evan rounds on her. "You know, if it weren't for you, I'd be part of a Career pack right now. So you don't get to have opinions. Got it?"  
  
Thoroughly subdued, Annie nods once.  
  
"She needs more assertiveness." Donn shakes his head disapprovingly. "We didn't team them up so he could babysit her. I didn't know what you saw in her at first, but you're right, he's overconfident."  
  
"He's going to get himself killed," Mags despairs. "If he's decided to stick with Annie, he should be making the most of the alliance. Otherwise, he should join up with the Careers and have done with it. Being halfway committed to the right strategy is worse than being fully committed to making the wrong strategy work, or no strategy at all."  
  
Annie watches Evan's back while he takes on a couple of children who are about as well prepared for this as she is. When he comes back and they leave together, she's covering her mouth with both her hands, but she follows without comment.  
  
As they walk, though, she's having increasing trouble, to the point where she's fighting herself. She clutches her arms to her chest and face and doubles over at times.  
  
"What's wrong with you?" Evan demands, turning around, when he finally notices.  
  
Annie just shakes her head and keeps walking. When Evan decides to stop, she eventually manages to get herself under control. "My body wants to throw up, but my mind knows I can't afford to lose food. I'll be fine."  
  
"She grew up hungry," Donn says, and Mags nods. It had been obvious, on the train, watching her gorge herself sick.  
  
_Mags held the girl's hair back as she vomited into the washbasin. Then she took Annie's hand and guided her over to a padded bench with a glass in hand. "Have a sip of water." She let Annie recover, stroking her waist-length hair while waiting.  
  
"I know you can't help it. I understand. You're not the first tribute to suddenly get enough to eat. But we have to manage this, or it can be dangerous. I'll-"  
  
Annie started laughing hysterically. "Dangerous! Wouldn't want to do anything __dangerous_. _"  
  
Mags looked down at the floor for a moment to collect herself. Wouldn't it be kinder, she wondered, just to let the girl eat what she wanted before she went out to die?  
  
But Mags couldn't change who she was. She had two personas: the gentle, motherly one Annie saw; and the mentor who never accepted second-best from her trainees. Both personas were embodied by tough love.  
  
"We're going to make sure you get enough to eat. I promise. But we're going to make sure __as well that_ _you don't get sick. Can you work with me on that, honey?" Mags prompted Annie, who was now staring without speaking at the wall.  
  
"Annie?"  
  
Annie nodded, but it wasn't clear she even knew what she was agreeing to. She tended to shut down like this, withdrawing into her own private world where this nightmare wasn't real.  
  
Mags put her arms around Annie for a quick hug, and after that, managed her food intake with some success._  
  
Annie's life of hunger makes itself felt again and again, as she has to stop and rest frequently. She has no stamina, and she's running on sheer willpower. Mags wants to resent Evan for being careless of his own survival and of Annie's feelings, but he does stop whenever she does. Annie tries her best not to complain during the long hunting treks, and in return, he stares impatiently into the distance while he waits for her, but he doesn't say anything.  
  
As alliances go, it's hardly the best, but it's maybe not the worst, either.  
  
"Can you at least fish while I guard?" Evan asks on the second afternoon. They've reached a sizable lake, and while it's a great source of food, it will be a source of contention among the tributes that find it. The only reason most haven't yet is that the terrain is wrong for a lake. This one is artificial, created by a dam.  
  
"Wouldn't that involve killing an animal, which you said I couldn't do?" Annie snipes. Not looking at him, she kneels by the edge of the lake, and with quiet efficiency, begins making her preparations.  
  
"Good girl," Mags cheers. _Don't let him walk all over you._  
  
"If you were eighteen," Donn begins.  
  
Mags knows where he's going. "If I were eighteen, and I knew only one of us was coming out alive, and she had nothing to offer, I might wish I could save her, but I wouldn't throw my life away for a stranger who has no chance of surviving without me anyway. But I would try to get as much use out of her as I could, especially if she'd come recommended as an ally. Which he's not doing."  
  
Donn tightens his lips. "He thinks you're weak," he explains. "I know you're not." He raises his hand hastily. "You're the mastermind. But he thinks you're trying to keep her alive at his expense, out of pity."  
  
Mags is frustrated. "It at least made some sense when Livia suspected me of trying to keep Finnick alive at her expense. But how on earth could I keep Annie alive out there after he dies? There's nothing remotely sensible about that. I'm trying to keep _him_ alive, because he has a chance of coming home. Or I thought he did, before I saw that his strategy was to ignore all good advice from us or Annie and try to get himself killed on a regular basis. Now I say she has a better chance. Look at her climbing trees, getting food, looking for cover, having her priorities straight."  
  
Donn nods reluctantly. "He's one of those Careers who thinks the Games are about killing. They're about surviving."  
  
On the third day, Annie's sitting on the ground when Evan wakes up. "I've decided," she begins.  
  
He starts gathering up his supplies. Without looking at her, he says, "No. You don't get to make decisions, remember?"  
  
"I've decided." Annie's wearing a forced calm, and she presses on. "You're right. I'm not going home no matter what you do. You might as well go see if the Career pack will still take you in, try to stay alive."  
  
"Are you kidding?" Evan stares at her in shock and maybe, finally, a glimmer of respect.  
  
"I've been someone else's burden my whole life. If I'm going to die anyway, there's no point in bringing you down with me." Annie hesitates. "Just, um, maybe don't lead them to me?" Her voice shakes on this part.  
  
Evan is silent for a minute. Then, brusquely, "I'll tell them you're dead. What supplies do you want?"  
  
"A pack," Annie lists. "You'll have plenty at the Cornucopia and a place to store your things. A knife for gutting fish, setting traps, carving fish spears, and things like that. Half the food, if that's okay. Your odds should go up, and Mags and Donn will be able to send you more."  
  
"As if I won't send you bread!" Mags chokes. The idea is a disgrace. Even if Annie's Capitol funds are lean, she gets half of what comes from District Four as long as she lives. No matter what Livia thought, Mags has never once thrown a tribute to the wolves to get another one through. Maybe some mentors do that, but she more than anyone knows there are flukes every year.  
  
"You know what I overheard Mags say? 'Sponsors can't save you from the arena. They can only help you die more comfortably.' I know it's ridiculous for me to be trying to stay alive, but I'd like to die a little comfortably. I can't help it."  
  
Donn rests his hand on Mags' shoulder, comforting her without words. There are no words.  
  
"Keep all the food," Evan says gruffly. "You're right, I won't do without."  
  
"I kept her away from the dining room," Mags grieves. She spent every night in Annie's room, ordering up room service for dinner and breakfast and forcing her to eat slowly. "And I need to stop talking where anyone can overhear me."  
  
"We both did," Donn reminds her. Annie alternated between docile acceptance of her food limitations, and occasional desperate attempts to break into the dining room. Fortunately, she was small enough that keeping her out could be done by a man his size with extreme gentleness.  
  
"You want me to drop you off somewhere safer before I leave?" Evan asks. "I haven't been going for safe, I've been going for picking off weaker tributes."  
  
"Near water?" Annie hazards. "Maybe not the lake, since I can't defend it, but some more secluded spot? Thank you," she whispers, and for all the world looks like she means it.  
  
On their way through the woods, Annie stops suddenly. It takes Evan a minute to notice; then he sighs, and stops too. But Annie's darting up a tree before he has time to finish turning around.  
  
"What are you-"  
  
Then he sees what she heard. Snakes. Snakes emerging from the bushes, slithering along the ground, hissing from every direction. He runs; she climbs. He doesn't get very far before he's completely surrounded, and out comes the spiked mace. He's frantically pounding the ground with it, turning in circles as fast as he can. It's hard for someone his height to reach that low, but if he waits until they swarm him, he'll be smashing himself with the mace and getting bitten.  
  
Annie has more luck. The snakes can slither up the tree, no problem, but the higher she gets, the less surface area they have from which to approach her. So far, they're only coming up from the bottom along the trunk. If they spread out and go directly from branch to branch until they can come at her from the sides and above, then she's dead. But they show no sign of being capable of that.  
  
Only having to fight snakes below her, then, Annie manages to break off a branch and smash down as hard as she can. Sometimes a snake latches on to the branch she's holding, in which case she hurls it as far she can and gets herself a new branch.  
  
Mags goes to find out if they have money for antivenom. Thanks to Evan's Capitol sponsors, they have enough for one dose. She takes it without even waiting to see the outcome of the battle, because seconds can matter.  
  
She races back to Donn as fast as her arthritic knees will let her. "What happened?!"  
  
"She's fine. He's bitten. The mutts are gone."  
  
"I've got antivenom on the way in." Mags sits shakily down to watch.  
  
Evan's leaning dizzily against a tree. Annie takes the parachute and jabs him with the needle. While they wait for it to take effect, Annie says, "Thank you. This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't come with me."  
  
"This wouldn't have happened if you'd climbed a tree too," mutters Mags, but it's hard to berate a kid being tortured for entertainment for the quality of his strategies. Besides, Annie weighs less than half of what he does and can get higher in trees.  
  
"No, because you wouldn't have thrown a snake on me," Evan growls, but he's too sick, and his heart isn't in it.  
  
Annie looks ashamed and takes out her knife. She's going to keep watch until he's better.  
  
As soon as Evan can stand, he does. "Let's just get this over with."  
  
When they reach the river, they walk along it, looking for a good spot. There's plenty of thick brush right along the edge, which is good. Annie rejects the first bend in the river. "I want something where I can see people coming and they can't see me."  
  
"You don't want much." But Evan is being much more tolerant now that there's an end in sight to this alliance. Or maybe some guilt has penetrated.  
  
They reach a place where an embankment has been cut into the slope of the land, forming a breaker against flooding from the river. They walk up to it, trying to see how good Annie's proposed hiding place will be from this angle. Then they hear noises in the background.  
  
Annie goes still, as she always does, waiting for orders, but Evan jerks and then outright freezes. A look of absolute fury crosses his face. He recognizes those voices, but if he joins them now, Annie is dead in the next five seconds.  
  
He glares at Annie as they lean into the embankment, trying to conceal themselves. If they're quiet, the group sounds like it's moving downriver and might pass out of range entirely. Then Evan can follow them and find a way of joining them on his own terms. If they’ll still have him; the Career pack is usually pretty well formed by now.  
  
It's just about to work when something springs over Annie's shoulder. She jumps with an involuntary cry. It's just a squirrel, not a snake or another tribute, and it heads down to the brush. She turns bright red and shoves her fist into her mouth as though she can go back in time and shut herself up.  
  
The camera cuts to the Career pack. "Did you hear something?"  
  
Without saying anything else, they turn around, weapons raised, and start coming up the river.  
  
Evan is shaking his head in denial. Then, when he can deny no longer, and the voices are so close that he's sure their cover is blown, he grabs Annie. "Why do you have to ruin everything?" he hisses. Without asking permission, he heaves her up over the embankment. Then he turns back to the river lowlands and waits.  
  
"Go with her!" Mags cries. "They're not going to take you in, they're hunting!"  
  
"He knows that," Donn tells her, resigned. "He's preparing to fight. Look at his stance."  
  
Three Careers from One and Two come into sight. The fourth is back at the Cornucopia.  
  
"Two for him, one to follow her, and they're both dead." Mags sighs.  
  
Evan raises his mace. He doesn't even try to persuade them to let him join. It would only look like weakness.  
  
Annie, of all people, has stopped on the slope above and gathered some stones, which she's now throwing downhill at the Careers. She's not very strong, but she is brave. The only thing that's holding her back is not wanting to hit Evan. One of the pack, the girl from One, is coming up the embankment, but instead of chasing Annie, she turns around to help deal with Evan.  
  
Evan swings his mace and gets in one good blow to the face of the boy from Two, killing him, before the girl from One throws herself at him from behind. The boy from One takes advantage of the opening. His sword slices cleanly into Evan's neck.  
  
Annie's face freezes in horror. Beyond screaming, she simply flees. No one hears her, because the girl from One is screaming enough for two.  
  
"You cut me!"  
  
"You were in the way!" her partner cries defensively, but a look of shocked guilt crosses his face.  
  
She's bleeding badly, but it's a face wound. They always bleed, superficial or serious.  
  
He puts his arm around her shoulders and turns them around. "Back to the Cornucopia. Or, who was that throwing the stones?"  
  
"Scared little girl," she gasps through the blood. "She's gone."  
  
"We'll get her later," he decides, and she nods briefly, trying to stem the blood from her face.  
  
"This is the weakest Career pack I've seen in years," Mags says. "He's not doing effective first aid _or_ chasing down his enemy. I bet they lose the Cornucopia."  
  
"We're both going to make it to the end," the boy from One promises his district partner before the camera leaves them.  
  
Mags groans.  
  
"Does he really care for her?" Donn wonders. He looks sick too.  
  
"Why?" Mags pulls at her hair. "Why would you go into the arena with someone you care about? Volunteer in different years, at least. Do they _want_ to have to kill each other? I can't even criticize them any more. They're just kids in the same situation as the rest of us, even if they've been trained to kill for fun or what we call glory."  
  
Annie, when they finally show her, has completely snapped. She's in hiding deep in the woods, away from the water. She's huddled in a thicket of bushes. Curled up into a fetal position, she rocks back and forth, with her hands pressed over her ears. No sound emerges from her throat, though.  
  
She does not make a single sound for the next two days, not even when she sees an animal dart by. She'll snap around to look at it, and then long after it's gone, she'll still be staring at nothing.  
  
Donn and Mags can only shake their heads in despair and painful, painful empathy.  
  
"She blames herself," Donn laments.  
  
"He should have run. But if he hadn't stayed to fight, the Careers would have hunted both of them. They should have anyway, but they didn't, so Annie's alive and Evan's dead."  
  
"Poor girl."  
  
"You know," Mags muses, "I've been thinking. I don't know her history. Sometimes they tell me, the reaped ones, but Annie wouldn't open up to me at all. But I know a couple of things. One is that no one visited her before the train departed."  
  
Donn groans. "I never know if it's worse if they have family to watch them or if they don't."  
  
"I always try to decide what's worse than what," Mags says. "Maybe I should just stop, if I haven't figured it out after seventy-five years. What's worse is whatever you're dealing with right now. Anyway, do you remember her saying she's been someone else's burden her whole life?"  
  
"Is that how she put it?" Donn thinks. "Orphan, then?"  
  
"Basically. Whoever took her in couldn't afford to do so. She learned to blame herself for the hardships, and she had to take a lot of tesserae. That's how I put the pieces together, anyway."  
  
This is, of course, how the most damaged children end up in the arena alongside the most sociopathic.  
  


* * *

  
With the food Evan left her, insects, and occasional water when she dares a pond for a few minutes, Annie survives another two days. She's very good at finding hiding places. She's so completely terrified of everything that she doesn't settle until she's thoroughly hidden. She has a good eye for terrain, which is how she ended up in a tree fighting snakes in the first place. And of course, she gets very, very lucky.  
  
She's hungry, though. The funds from District Four have dried up, and her odds are extremely low. Since Evan didn't make a great showing, teaming up with Annie and then failing to make the most of it, in fact making it clear to anyone who might be watching that it was a worse than useless alliance, there wasn't much Capitol funding even for District Four's Career, most of which went to the antivenom. Now Evan's dead, and Annie's snapped.  
  
Mags and Donn are just braced for the inevitable, hoping it's quick, when something Mags has never seen happens. The camera goes to a bird's-eye view, looking down from the top of the dome on the arena, and it stays there. No sounds are heard.  
  
"Whaaa-" A low swell of muttering fills the viewing area. Everyone is confused, the longer it goes on, unchanging.  
  
"I can't make anything out," Mags says. Her eyes aren't particularly bad, far-sighted if anything, but this picture is blurry.  
  
"Mmm." Donn is squinting. "Not sure...It looks like everything is moving. Shaking."  
  
"Earthquake." The rumor spreads like wildfire in whispers. No one knows anything for sure, or at any rate the ones who do aren't talking, but people are starting to piece it together.  
  
Beetee, of District Three, appears to talk to Mags. There's always been a professional respect between them. "I think this is a real one," he tells her. "We'd have better coverage if they'd triggered it as part of the Games."  
  
"How long before they get us coverage, if so?"  
  
She can see calculations churning in his head, but he has so little data to work with. "If the trees fall, we may never get real coverage. But they should be able to get us a better picture from this one soon, now that the shaking's stopped." He bends down to put his head between Mags' and Donn's and speaks very softly. "The longer they don't, the more I think they must be racing to regain control of communications."  
  
"We haven't heard any cannons," Mags realizes.  
  
Beetee's face lights up. "You're right. If it's this bad, surely there were casualties."  
  
Just as he says this, eight cannons go off in quick succession. The picture improves.  
  
The technical recovery was fast, but it still shows a chink in the armor of the Capitol. Even they're not immune to the whims of nature. "Canute," Donn whispers. Mags nods, but Beetee looks blank.  
  
"Later," Mags says out of the corner of her mouth. This is not the place to tell aloud the story of an ancient king who ordered the tide to retreat, but in vain, in order to demonstrate the limits of his power to flatterers. It's a story they tell their children in District Four. Officially, it's to teach them respect for the water. Unofficially...everyone gets the message.  
  
The shaking resumes, but now they can see it clearly. This must be a replay of the footage that was recorded but couldn't be broadcast during the quake. Trees topple. Tributes scream, run, fall. Their faces can't be made out at this resolution, still from a bird's-eye view, but mentors are calling out names they think they recognize.  
  
A cannon goes off, while the camera focuses on one of the indistinct figures below. Then another. "This is a repeat," a Gamemaker's voice explains. "Note, this is not a new cannon."  
  
They're being allowed to view the individual deaths now.  
  
"The original eight we heard must have been automatically generated," Beetee mutters. "Or queued up and automatically broadcast. Now they're trying to do it right."  
  
Then a wild, rushing sound comes from the screen. Mags recognizes it at once.  
  
"Static?" Beetee wonders.  
  
"The dam broke," Mags and Donn say in unison.  
  
A wild, irrational hope fills Mags. Donn tenses beside her. "Come on, girl."  
  
"Come on, Annie. All you have to do is swim."  
  
Of all people, they know how dangerous a flood can be. The best swimmers are lost every year in District Four. But swimming is better than not swimming now.  
  
Some of the tributes have the sense to run for high ground, but the wave engulfs them nonetheless. Cannons go off, now linked to a picture. "This is a repeat. Note, this is not a new cannon."  
  
Finally, finally, they get a side view. The water is swamping the arena, bringing rubble and pushing over trees.  
  
"Note, this is a new cannon." Claudius Templesmith has never sounded so intensely serious in his life. "Again, we have word from the Gamemakers that this one _is_ a new cannon."  
  
Now someone, nowhere near the river or pond, has climbed atop a tree stump and is watching the approaching flood, waiting. Whoever it is has been smart enough to find a clearing large enough that no trees will be pushed over onto her. It'll be hard enough to reach the surface through the trees and other debris already in the water.  
  
"It's her," Donn says, but he sounds uncertain.  
  
"It's got to be. It's her hair."  
  
"Your girl's gonna make it," Beetee encourages them.  
  
Mags shakes her head, not tempting fate. If this isn't a Gamemaker-controlled earthquake, they might all die. No winner this year.  
  
"You got anyone still out there?" Donn asks.  
  
Beetee bites his lip. "After this? Probably not. None of mine could swim."  
  
Donn squeezes his shoulder and the three of them turn back to the screen. The flood swallows Annie. Then the camera cuts to another tribute. "No!" Donn shouts.  
  
"No cannon. No cannon." Mags is rocking back and forth.  
  
Then the anthem plays. It's not night, but the Gamemakers are making it clear who survived and who didn't.  
  
The girl from One flashes by. The girl from Two. Both of Beetee's. The boy from Six, making Mags and Donn gasp in relief. Girl from Eight. Boy from Ten. Both from Eleven.  
  
"For those of you who've been keeping track," Claudius announces, back to his usual good cheer, "that leaves Horatio, District One, and Annie Cresta, District Four, in this shocking turn of events. A good fighter and a good swimmer. Who will be left standing--or floating--at the end of the day?"  
  
Then nothing happens for a while. Donn gets up and paces. Mags wants to, but her legs are unbearably stiff. She's this close to taking a painkiller, except that she feels horribly guilty treating her own discomforts while watching children die before her eyes.  
  
Horatio is swimming, swimming. Annie is stationary and surrounded by debris, mostly trees. With every hour that passes, the viewers get more angles and better pictures.  
  
"Her best shot is if he doesn't find her until after dark," Donn says. "She _has_ to be better at swimming blind than he is."  
  
They have no such luck, though.  
  
"Let go. Let go of the branch," Mags coaxes, as though Annie can hear her and only needs to be talked through the right course of action. "That branch won't save you. Let go."  
  
"She's petrified," Donn says.  
  
"Then she'll let go when she's more afraid of him than she is of the water. She has no training, but her survival instincts have been solid."  
  
"She fears the right things," Donn says, quoting Mags earlier.  
  
Mags nods.  
  
Very slowly, eyes on the approaching boy, Annie lets go of the branch. She starts swimming backwards, still watching him. Not very fast, still half-paralyzed with fear, but avoiding debris a lot more successfully than Horatio. He curses as he comes at her. He tries diving once, but it's even worse below, and he has to surface. Annie has managed to widen the distance between them in that time. She's positioning herself well, gliding around the debris like it's nothing, and putting it between her and her advancing enemy.  
  
He has no weapon, but the murderous look on his face says he will rip her to pieces with his bare hands when he gets there. No petrified slip of a girl should be giving him this much trouble, not when she's the only thing standing between him and home.  
  
"She has no chance in hand-to-hand combat," Donn says. "Not even in the water."  
  
"Then she has to keep him from closing on her."  
  
"No stamina, remember?"  
  
"Then she has to end this quickly."  
  
"You have a _plan_?" Donn turns on her, actually looking away from the screen.  
  
"Does no good for _me_ to have a plan," Mags says, not looking away. "Come on, Annie. You have one chance."  
  
"What chance is that?" asks Beetee. "I'm sorry, but I thought she was a goner too."  
  
"Target fixation," Mags tells them. "He's so focused on killing her that he's ignoring his surroundings. That's why he's struggling so much."  
  
"If you were out there," Donn says, "that would be great, but she's too terrified to come up with this plan herself."  
  
"She won't plan," Mags acknowledges. "Any more than she planned to let go of the branch. It would be best, obviously, if she could guide him somewhere deadly, but all she really has to do is react to danger faster than he does."  
  
"They'd best hit danger soon, then."  
  
"Soon" is relative when every minute is agony. Annie has to dive once to avoid his grasping hands, but she goes where he can't follow her and stays under longer than he can. When she surfaces, she's broken the paralysis, and is going all out. No longer looking at Horatio, she's facing away and swimming the direction she's facing. It adds significantly to her speed, though she's still hindered by the debris.  
  
Then they hear it. "Another flood?" Beetee queries. It does sound similar to the first.  
  
"Waterfall," Donn says.  
  
"Rapids," Mags adds. "If we're lucky." The terrain was rugged, and the dam was at high elevation, which is why it took so long for most of the tributes to find the artificial lake.  
  
Annie slows before she hits it, and turns, now more afraid of the water than of her enemy. She may feel at home in the water, but home is always deadly, and she knows better than to underestimate it.  
  
Eyes on the prize, Horatio comes at her at full speed. Annie's frozen again, drifting. She still hasn't made a sound since this boy beheaded Evan.  
  
The whole viewing area can hear Mags and Donn shouting. "Grab a branch! Make him cross the rapids to come to you! Anything!"  
  
Annie's too out of it for a plan like "make him cross the rapids", but in sheer self-preservation, she grabs onto a tree and holds position, treading water where it's stillest.  
  
Still not thinking, but still feeling safest where there are trees and boulders between her and Horatio, she's managed to work herself into a nook where he has to swim around to get at her from the side. He could fight his way through, but he's volubly sick of this game, and he has no more desire to hack at branches with his hands. He swims to the center of the stream, where it's clearest.  
  
"Why aren't you dead yet?" Horatio shouts in frustration.  
  
It seems she's about to be, when the current takes him unawares. He doesn't realize it at first, and fights to get straight across to Annie. Even after he moves downstream of her, he's thrashing and trying to work his way up to her, directly against the current.  
  
"Target fixation," Donn says. "Yes."  
  
Only once he's slammed into a protruding rock from behind, does Horatio break out of the zone and realize where he is. Panicking, he tries to grab onto something for safety. He even, in his thrashing, reaches out his hand to the girl he was trying to kill until a minute ago.  
  
He's a strong swimmer, in terms of brute force, but just as the earthquake was stronger than the Gamemakers, this current sweeps Horatio over the edge of the waterfall. Annie watches him go, clinging to her tree, without a word.  
  
"Cannon. Cannon." Mags is chanting, praying.  
  
Nothing.  
  
"They have to wait until he's completely gone," Donn reminds her, and himself.  
  
He can't possibly have survived that fall...can he? Even if so, it'll be hard for him to reach her again, but she can't last much longer.  
  
"Cannon!" Donn jumps out of his seat just as Mags collapses into hers, hands pressed to her heart.  
  
Annie doesn't react, even when the music starts to play and the spotlight shines down on her.  
  


* * *

  
She still isn't reacting when they bring her to the Capitol. She sits curled up in a ball on the floor of the hovercraft, unresponsive. "She's not moving," one of the doctors says. "We've checked her out, and there's nothing wrong with her but malnutrition and dehydration."  
  
Mags lowers herself painfully to the floor and talks to Annie, holding her hand, but it's impossible to tell if she's listening. In the background, there's talk of wheeling her out, but all Mags can think is that she wants this girl out of the hands of the Capitol officials and into the hands of her own people.  
  
Eventually she nods at Donn, who picks an unresisting Annie up and carries her as though she's his granddaughter. The ease with which he's able to do so makes Mags bite her lip.  
  
The one thing Annie will do, sitting in bed, is eat. She'll let Mags feed her, but if Mags pauses too long, she'll start grabbing at the tray. Mags works with a Capitol doctor on what and when to feed her, and he talks about something called "refeeding syndrome." "What she's suffering from doesn't qualify as starvation," he explains, "but it is malnutrition." Surely he must be an expert on it; though, on the other hand, most of the kids who make it out of the arena are the ones who've had enough to eat.  
  
Mags won't let Annie's stylist touch her, insisting that there's nothing anyone can improve until she's started recovering. But she does personally spend a certain amount of time each morning, longer than strictly necessary, brushing Annie's hair. It's damaged now, but Mags tells her it's going to be lovely when her body has a chance to heal.  
  
Whether her mind will heal...no one is sure. There are small signs of change over the week. She will make slight adjustments to her posture to allow Mags to brush her hair. She seems to find it soothing. Then, after four days of near-catatonia, Annie begins startling at unexpected sounds. Mags isn't sure she'd call it an improvement, exactly, but responding to her environment may be a sign that Annie will improve with time. The jumpiness is certainly something most victors, including Mags' younger self, have gone through.  
  
All too soon, though, the doctor pronounces Annie's condition "good enough," and she's dragged by main force out of Mags' hands. Her prep team ooh and aah over the adorable waif presentation they're giving her. "No matter how much I threw up, I'd never have cheekbones like that!" one exclaims in rapture.  
  
_That can be arranged,_ Mags wants to say. _We'll put you in the arena for a few weeks, let you fend for yourself, and then you'll be the envy of everyone in the Capitol. I mean, after they fix up all the damage._  
  
At least, since Annie's been so passive, it hasn't been any trouble to keep her from throwing up. Mags can't wait for her to start fighting back, though.  
  
"I was right," she tells Donn as they wait outside the Remake Center. "Whatever you're facing is the worst. I believe with all my heart that nothing was worse than watching Finnick ask me for help and not being able to give it to him. If he'd died out there, I think I might have died as well. But at least...he never suffered _this_ much." Finnick was driving events before him, an active player, even if one in a game larger than himself. Annie, though she'd exercised enough agency to keep herself alive, was mostly reacting internally to events she had no control over.  
  
"You need to get some rest." Donn looks at her with concern. "I'd offer to spell you, but she's as much afraid of me as anyone else."  
  
It's true, Annie's afraid of everyone except Mags. Mags can't protect her from most people and things she fears, but when she can, she does.  
  
Mags shakes her head. "I've slept. Annie's quiet and still. It isn’t hard to sleep in the bed next to her. It's just..." She wants to go home, go home and not think and let someone else solve problems for once.  
  
"Take care of yourself," Donn advises. "If you don't take care of yourself, you can't take care of Annie."  
  
Sometimes Mags thinks about being less invested. Well, for the most part she is. The volunteers are arrogant teenagers who can think they can take care of themselves. They can't, mostly, but at least they want to be left alone while they figure that out for themselves. Mags watches them die, but she doesn't die of it. She goes home and starts training next year's bunch.  
  
Finnick was hard because he was equal parts her student and her adopted son. Annie's hard because she's the first victor from Four who wasn't trained. Maybe the other districts are used to their rare victors coming home complete wrecks. Mags isn't; only Octavius, and she could never figure out what to do for him. He won't let anyone do anything for him. Maybe Annie will. Maybe she'll have a chance if she accepts help.  
  
If only Mags knew what constituted help.  
  
Annie's Flickerman interview is a disaster. The moment she sees the replay begin, she closes her eyes and puts her hands over her ears. When that isn't enough to drown it out, she starts screaming wordlessly.  
  
Why they thought they could put a girl who's barely said a dozen words, and that only in the last couple days, on a talk show is anyone's guess, but logic and empathy have never been the strong points of the Hunger Games.  
  
The event breaks Annie's silence at last, though. She sobs through the entire interview, face buried in her hands, shaking her head and not responding to questions.  
  
If this had happened in the natural course of healing, Mags would be relieved to see her beginning to express emotion again. The first step on a painful road to recovery. But no, it happened in the unnatural course of continued torture, and Mags doesn't know if it will just break her further.  
  
"Let's get out of here," Mags says firmly when Annie flees the stage. She puts her arm around Annie and guides her back to the victors' facilities. She's called a bunch of reporters while waiting, and Annie's future interviews are canceled by mutual agreement.  
  
The feelings of resentment and disappointment, from the reporters and from Caesar's live audience, are tangible. That's fine. That's nothing. Mags can tell you District Four is _raging_ right now. She can feel it, and she's not even there. One of these days, something is going to snap.  
  


* * *

  
A crowd is gathered at the train station in District Four. There’s usually a crowd after a victor comes home, but this one exhibits no joy in victory. The spectators who aren't seething are here out of morbid curiosity. If she has a family, they haven't come to the front to greet her.  
  
Mags is the first to emerge from the train, and Finnick meets her on the platform, slipping past the line of Peacekeepers holding back the crowd. “What do you need?” are the first urgent words out of his mouth.  
  
“I need there not to be a crowd,” Mags answers, likewise skipping the small talk. “If you can get rid of the cameras too, that would be great. If not, we’ll just give her as much privacy as we can.”  
  
Finnick’s able to disperse most of the crowd, though the curiosity-seekers linger, reluctantly walking away with frequent glances back. The cameras from the Capitol, though, are there to stay. This moment will be broadcast across Panem.  
  
Donn carries Annie out of the train once the station is less crowded. Just as the cameras close in, the victors from Four form a phalanx around him, shielding Annie as much as possible. Finnick and Rudder, the two tallest, walk in front; Octavius in his wheelchair and Brine flank Donn. Mags has to pacify the camera crew by fielding all their questions, which she does by giving away as little information as possible. Even Candy, visibly disappointed, is affected by the subdued atmosphere.  
  
Halfway to the Victors’ Village, Octavius cackles. “Finally, someone who’s crazier than I am.”  
  
With instant reflex, Finnick steps out of formation long enough to grab the wheelchair and hiss in his ear, “I don’t give a damn about the girl, but you are _not_ going to make this harder on Mags.”  
  
“Finnick,” Mags calls warningly during the struggle for control of the chair.  
  
“Well, but he needs to keep his mouth shut,” Finnick snaps, relinquishing the battle.  
  
“He does,” says Mags just as emphatically in Octavius’ direction.  
  
The victors part ways and the camera crew is shut out when they reach the door of Annie’s new home. Donn takes Annie in, while Mags catches Finnick’s hand on the porch. “I need milk, bread, soup, maybe something sweet but not too rich...anything you’d feed someone who’s been malnourished her whole life.”  
  
“Will do,” Finnick promises, and he’s gone, glad to have concrete ways to help Mags.  
  
When he returns with his bags of food, Mags is nowhere to be seen, presumably inside. Donn is standing guard on the porch, turning away all visitors and well-wishers. He takes the bags from Finnick. “Thanks, I’ll take it in. She said no one enters the house other than me and her.”  
  
“She didn’t mean me!” Finnick protests.  
  
“I didn’t think so either, but I asked specifically. She does.”  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake-”  
  
“I’ll bring these in,” Donn interrupts, hefting the bags, “and I’ll ask her again.”  
  
He’s out again a minute later, shaking his head. “She said to tell you she wants to see you, but it’ll have to wait, because Annie’s too afraid of strangers. You can wait, or you can go home.”  
  
Finnick waits, of course. As people come into the Village, looking around for the house that's been allotted to Annie, they spot two victors sitting on one porch, and they inevitably make a beeline for that porch. Donn dismisses them politely but firmly, using the same line each time. Finnick greets them, asks their names, asks if they know Annie and if so how, and promises to let Annie know they dropped by, once she’s feeling better. Then he thanks them for coming.  
  
Finally, Donn lets his annoyance show. “You know, the longer they stay, the more people accumulate, and the more likely they are to come back. We’re supposed to be chasing them off, not making them feel welcome.”  
  
“A suggestion, Donn, if I may?” Finnick rolls his eyes. “Shut up. You do this your way, and I’ll do it mine.”  
  
After a while, a boy and a girl come running. They look familiar from a distance, and as they get closer, Finnick recognizes them.  
  
“Grampa, Grampa!” they cry as they get closer to the porch. “When are you coming home?”  
  
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school, rascals?” Donn asks, ruffling the girl’s hair.  
  
“Nuh uh!” the boy contradicts.  
  
“It’s a public holiday,” she informs her grandfather importantly. “Because of the new victor.”  
  
“That's why all the company,” Finnick mutters under his breath.  
  
“They should have called off the holiday,” Donn mutters back. “There’s nothing to celebrate here.”  
  
“Why don’t you go home?” Finnick offers in a normal voice. “I’m waiting on Mags anyway.”  
  
Donn, tired from a year even more draining than usual, looks from his grandchildren to Finnick and back at the kids. They’re bouncing up and down, tugging on his hands. “Thanks,” Donn decides at last. “I think I’ll take you up on that.”  
  
Finnick continues to receive visitors. A surprising number of them do not claim to have known Annie before. They’re just reaching out to see if anything can be done to help.  
  
_Tell her we all want her better soon_ is the message. District Four takes care of its own.  
  
One woman who comes up looks surprisingly full of grief. Finnick’s sure she knew Annie, or worse, Evan, but she shakes her head. “I have a daughter her age,” she explains, “or a bit older, who didn’t get called.”  
  
Or a bit older. “Had she had any training?” Finnick guesses, reading between the lines.  
  
The woman just nods sadly.  
  
One of the eighteen-year-olds who couldn’t bring herself to volunteer, then. It’s not an uncommon story.  
  
“We don’t shame them into volunteering,” Finnick says gently. “And so we don’t always get a volunteer.” As far as everyone in the district knows, his story is the same as Annie’s, except he’d been through some training before he was reaped.  
  
The woman is standing there riddled with relief and guilt: guilt at the relief, relief at the guilt...  
  
On an impulse, Finnick reaches into his pocket. “If you know girls’ sizes, would you mind picking out some clothes for her? Something practical but new.” He counts out some money for her. “And get something nice for your daughter as well.” That dress Annie went off to the Capitol in was obviously owned by several people before her, and she returned wearing it as well.  
  
“I will, thank you.” She clutches the money in her hand. “I’ll be right back.”  
  
Evan’s parents do show up. Wondering, no doubt, what would have happened if he had run with the Career pack, instead of protecting Annie with his life.  
  
All Finnick has to give them is words. He realizes that this is what Mags does every single year. This is his future as a mentor.  
  
He gives them a variation on the eulogy that he gave Livia’s family five years ago, but it’s sharper for them. Hanging unspoken in the air is the history between their son and the girl inside this house, mad with grief and guilt over Evan’s death.  
  
“Tell her it’s not her fault,” Evan’s mother finally says, after they’ve already started to walk away.  
  
Finnick promises. That was a hard thing for her to say. Her husband, beside her, stiffens his shoulders, knowing it’s true but not wanting to admit it.  
  
Mags finally comes out, looking half dead. She sits down on the porch steps beside Finnick. Sighing, she leans her head against his shoulder for a while before speaking.  
  
“Thank you for the food. You got all my favorite things too.”  
  
“Of course I did.”  
  
“I had forgotten to eat,” she admits.  
  
“I thought as much,” Finnick says. “I got her clothes too. I figured it would save you the trip. No one knew her size in shoes, but there’s a pair of house slippers in the bag.”  
  
Mags sits up straight at that and begins going through the bag. “That should be more than enough for now. I doubt she’s leaving the house any time soon. This is wonderful. Finnick, Donn will do anything I ask him to, but you will come up with things on your own.”  
  
Finnick’s so used to thinking of Mags and Donn as the pillars of mentorship that this is an odd thought, but it makes sense. Donn mentors the tributes in a set fashion every year. Mags is the mastermind at home, and Finnick is on his own in the Capitol every year, doing his spywork for her, without more than minimal guidance.  
  
“Donn’s family came to collect him,” Finnick tells her. “I said I’d keep watch.”  
  
“That was kind of you.” Her head is back on his shoulder, taking support instead of giving it. He knows a moment of pride that she’s relying on him so much these days.  
  
“Not really. We were getting on each other’s nerves.” His job is to form contacts with as many people as he can, and he has a very good head for names and faces. Mags agrees with him when she hears his complaint.  
  
“I think that was a wonderful idea, and I think it’ll also help Annie when she’s well enough to hear how many people visited. I wish I could have let you in, but she’s still too afraid. Would you mind collecting Brine and asking him to keep watch for a while? I think the stream of visitors will die down soon. When are you going to the Capitol this year?”  
  
Finnick makes a noncommittal noise. “My plan was to take the return train when it leaves this evening, for the after-Games celebrations, but if you need me...” He prefers to go after the Games, ostensibly because of the non-stop partying, but really because it makes his arrival the center of attention. During the Games, the residents of the Capitol have eyes only for the tributes.  
  
Mags thinks about it, then shakes her head. “I have other people who can run errands and keep watch. I only have one of you. There’s no one else who can do what you’re doing. Go.”  
  
Finnick hugs her and rises. He needs to leave now if he’s to catch the train. “I’ll bring you what I can, as always.”  
  
“Wish me luck,” Mags orders him. “I need to get her back on her feet before the Victory Tour.”  
  
Finnick winces sympathetically. He’d forgotten about that. “You’re a brave woman. Fingers crossed that it goes better than her interview.”  
  


* * *

  
The annual victory dinner of the Seventieth Hunger Games is held in District Four, all the living victors from the district in attendance.  
  
Octavius is holding forth on his experiences. "There were marshes that year. Insects everywhere."  
  
The visitors from the Capitol are enthralled. They're so young that the Thirty-Fifth Hunger Games were before their time.  
  
Mags' lips are pressed tight. He's had enough alcohol to shatter his normally unbreakable refusal to talk and start reliving his time in the arena. Or rather, start reliving it out loud.  
  
She hoped, at first, that retelling the story, like talking about a nightmare, would help its intensity fade. She used to come and listen to him, with this hope. Now, thirty-five years later, she thinks he's beyond help. He tells it using the same words every time. It's not going to leave him alone.  
  
All her children are damaged, but Octavius is one of the more broken ones.  
  
Mags, even now, wants to protect him, but she has a new charge.  
  
Annie's sitting frozen, like a bird that hopes none of the snakes surrounding her will see her. Her food has been untouched ever since Mags looked over at the sound of rattling, and saw Annie's fork clattering in a shaking hand against her plate. Annie set down her fork slowly and deliberately, then put her hands under the table, where presumably she's now clutching something tightly.  
  
Mags looks around for support, but finds none. Donn's staring morosely into his plate. He refuses to look up, even when she surreptitiously kicks his ankle. Not having the best day either. Brine's flirting with the young woman from the Capitol sitting beside him. She's responding politely, but Mags can see her gaze darting quickly over to Finnick in hopes of catching his eye. He's laughing over something with Rudder, though, and ignoring both the hopeful woman and...Mags. No help from that quarter.  
  
"They burrow under your skin, lay eggs, and hatch the eggs there," Octavius recites. "Then you have a whole swarm eating you alive from the inside."  
  
The Capitol representatives, hanging on his every word, groan enthusiastically at all the right moments, encouraging him.  
  
Annie now has her napkin pressed firmly to her mouth.  
  
Mags has had enough. There have to be some advantages to being seventy-five.  
  
No one is looking at her. She knocks over her wineglass, flooding the white tablecloth with red, and at the same time, buries her face in one hand as though to support her head. In reality, she's trying to buy herself time to arrange her features.  
  
All conversation stops. Even Octavius, having lost his rapt audience, blessedly falls silent in confusion. Several people turn to her with concerned faces, demanding to know if she's all right. Mags glances up in hopes that Annie is one of them, but Annie's staring straight ahead at nothing, guarded only by a thin napkin. She's trying to survive this night by desperately tuning everything out.  
  
"Fine," Mags stammers. Hopefully sounding convincingly ill. "I'm fine. Just a little—dizzy."  
  
Once again her gaze sweeps the table from between her fingers. Brine is half rising from his seat, but Mags looks away in frustration. He's too unreliable for this.  
  
Finnick's infuriatingly slow in reacting. His face is still flushed with drink and laughter when he turns to Mags, but his smile fades quickly. She catches his eye and widens hers urgently. He gets the message and stands up, which frees her to do the same.  
  
"I'm all right," Mags insists, waving one hand dismissively as she gets to her feet. "I just need to step outside for a breath of fresh air."  
  
She exaggerates the difficulty she's having, and Finnick takes her arm as they head toward the door. For all that, she moves quickly. Normally he might notice the discrepancy, but she can hear him trying to get his laughter under control. Well, if he's drunk, she can work with that too.  
  
They step out of the dining room and into the hallway. The moment the door is closed behind them, Mags pulls free of his arm. "I'm fine," she repeats, but this time her voice is brisk and efficient. "I need one thing from you right now. I need you to go back in there and dominate the conversation for the whole table."  
  
"I-what?" Finnick is having a hard time following her sudden change from elderly patient to demanding mentor.  
  
"Don't let Octavius talk. And don't talk about anyone’s Games. Tell anecdotes about the Capitol, talk about how wonderful it is there, something. Do it for me now."  
  
"Okay..." He's staring at her blankly. "Are you sure you're all right?"  
  
"I need a diversion. I'll explain later. We don't have time now." Then, because he's Finnick and she's known him all his life, she adds, "You're the only one I can count on."  
  
"All right." Finnick is still hesitating, but slowly being convinced. "You always know what you're doing."  
  
"I do. I'll explain later," she promises. "Go now."  
  
Mags thanks her lucky stars that she and Finnick have worked so closely together that he obeys without further question. She can see him worrying, but he goes.  
  
She sinks into an adorned chair in the hall, worrying herself. There's no way to be sure the conversation won't turn to his Games despite her warning, but at least his experience was less traumatic than Octavius'. Annie might make it through a recitation without throwing up.  
  
It would be a lot easier if Finnick had been perceptive enough to pick up on Annie's distress and feel his way through the situation himself, but the reason he didn't is the same reason that Mags can trust him to dominate the conversation: he can be incredibly self-centered. He'll do anything for Mags, and she loves him without reserve, but she has no illusions.  
  
The stupid mandatory Victory Tour. Mags has no power to prevent it, any more than she could call off the celebratory banquet tonight. Annie had broken her heart earlier, pleading to be let off and finally screaming curses at Mags. Mags couldn't hold it against her and even cried with her.  
  
_"What if I refuse to go? What if I refuse!"_ _  
  
__Mags loves all her children, but as Finnick knows, hers is a tough love. "Do you have anyone you care about?"_ _  
  
__Annie nodded, glaring through her tears as though she suspected a trick question._ _  
  
__"Then I would go."_ _  
  
__The horror on Annie's comprehending face made it hard to go on, but Mags did._ _  
  
__"I don't make the rules, honey. I only stay alive under them. And if you want to defy the rules, there are ways and we'll help you, but this isn't one of them."_ _  
  
__She patted Annie's hand, but Annie jerked it away as though from a hot stove._ _  
  
__"You won't be alone this time. You'll have your mentors with you the whole way. You'll have cards to read from. Most_ _every_ _thing will be scripted. Then you'll come home again, and you can go back to your life."_ _  
  
__"I hate you," Annie whispered._ _  
_  
Now Annie's trapped at a table with a bunch of Careers who terrify her, and a flock of chirping Capitol birds who are of no use to anyone and are there solely to make the situation worse. Mags' experience in her youth after the failed rebellion is that war survivors generally don't like to talk about their experiences, except under extreme circumstances. But the traumas of the Hunger Games are fodder for entertainment. The victors are expected to talk about and re-watch their time in the arena, and even answer questions about what they were thinking and feeling. They become public property.  
  
Mags has done the most she can tonight for her newest victor. Her voice is very quiet at the best of times. Even if the trainees and victors are in the habit of listening when she speaks with authority as a mentor, she lacks the forceful charisma to make an entire table pay attention to her at a social occasion when there are more entertaining options. Her role is to take in the situation and figure out a plan; Finnick's, to put her plan into action.  
  
At least, she tries to comfort herself, Annie was able to put down her fork at dinner. Since Mags first took charge of her diet, she's had enough time as a victor to put on some weight and learn to trust that if she stops eating, there will be more food later. Forever.  
  
When the doors open again after dinner and the jovial company trickles out, Mags is prepared to grab Annie and ask her to walk her home, but Annie flies past like a bat out of hell. She's gone before Mags has a chance.  
  
Mags suppresses a sigh. Win some, lose some. Finnick at least stops by to make sure she's all right. She replies with warm smiles to everyone's concern and assures them again and again that she's only tired.  
  
She makes Finnick take her arm, and as they walk out onto the main street of the Victors' Village, asks in an undertone, "How'd it go?"  
  
They head toward her door. "Well, the banquet's guest of honor didn't seem to appreciate it much, but I had fun."  
  
Mags is torn between "Oh, you noticed, did you?" and "Empathy's not exactly your strong point, eh?" but she knows she'll never say either. As long as she keeps him playing to his strengths, there's really no one else like him. Even if he never learns to look outside himself as he gets older—it's easy to forget he's only nineteen—Finnick will still be her favorite for as long as she lives.  
  
"Are you sure you're feeling okay?" He really does care about her, at least.  
  
"I was creating a diversion. I'll come by to talk to you tomorrow morning. Try not to be too hung over."  
  
"Try not to come too early," Finnick retorts. "Before the train leaves?"  
  
"Eight o'clock," she confirms.  
  


* * *

  
Mags wakes up early, angry at herself because she's fretting too much to fall asleep again, and she should be old enough to know better. She can't help it, though.  
  
She has a key to Finnick's house, and she lets herself in quietly at six. He stocks a better kitchen than she does, so she helps herself. While she's at it, she fixes a few things for him, because she's not too sure he'll be thrilled at what she has to say.  
  
To his credit, he's downstairs at eight. Sipping his orange juice and tearing a green-tinted bagel into his salmon egg scramble, Finnick fixes her with bloodshot but focused eyes. He's young and his body used to abuse. School, work, and training for the Games from an early age left little time for sleep.  
  
"Well?" He's wearing the same expression as he always did when waiting for her feedback after one of his performances when he was a child in training, and it moves her to tenderness.  
  
"First of all, thank you for last night." She's rewarded with a hint of a smile. "Donn's been my right hand for a long time, but you're getting older, and he and I aren't going to live forever."  
  
Finnick raises his eyebrows. "There are three other living victors." From anyone else, that might be modesty, but she knows he's fishing for how he compares.  
  
She gives it to him. "Octavius?"  
  
"Well, two."  
  
"Brine's too flighty for serious work." In other districts, they can't be picky about mentors, but in Four, Mags is lead and chooses the others for the tasks she thinks they're best suited to. Which is why she's here in Finnick's kitchen. "Rudder's rock solid, but he's too reserved for what I have in mind." More than that, though she'll never say it, it's that Rudder is far less open to her influence than Finnick.  
  
"Like making everyone pay attention to me at dinner parties?"  
  
"Like that," Mags agrees. "I don't know if you noticed, but Annie's not holding up well."  
  
"We don't even have a victor this year," Finnick says in disgust. "We have a frightened child. Caesar did his best with her, but-"  
  
Mags can do disgust herself. "Caesar did his best to make the plight of a half-starved sixteen-year-old, thrown to the wolves to die, sufficiently entertaining for the benefit of his audience, but the half-starved sixteen-year-old didn't have the grace to play along. Yes. That. So we're going to give them a highly sexed nineteen-year-old instead."  
  
Finnick knows immediately who she's talking about, but she watches him work to make the other connections. "I'm going on the Victory Tour?"  
  
Mags nods. "Congratulations. You can't take her place, but you can hog the spotlight as much as humanly possible. Give them what they want. Give them entertainment in spades. Give them circuses," she snarls.  
  
"You decided this today?" Finnick demands. "The train leaves in three hours!"  
  
Mags is relentless. "I believe they offered her three minutes to say goodbye to her family before she was shuttled off to die. I don't think they invited her to pack. Be at the station by eleven."  
  
"Wait, no, go back. I'm _supposed_ to hog the spotlight? I thought the whole point was that I had to take a step back and not overshadow-"  
  
"Yes,” Mags interrupts, “that was before I saw that it's the kindest thing we can do for her. Any other victor you try this on, Finnick Odair, you'll answer to me."  
  
Finnick hears the teasing behind her intensity, and he laughs. "I've been good. Admit it."  
  
"You've been wonderful," she acknowledges. "Well behaved. Now I need you to do the opposite."  
  
Finnick's grinning in disbelief. "Well, if you're sure, I think I can manage to cancel all my upcoming engagements in the next three hours."  
  
Mags smiles her gratitude. "One other thing. If you can't be patient with Annie, please do me the favor of ignoring her. She's doing the best she can, and I'm working on helping her back into one piece."  
  
Finnick sighs. "It doesn't make District Four look good."  
  
"We have you for that. I'll see you in a couple of hours."  
  


* * *

  
A girl is screaming somewhere. Finnick is sure it’s Livia, if he can only get to her in time. Maybe this time he can save her.  
  
Knife in hand, he lunges in the direction of the cries. He struggles with a door— _A door?—_ but the knob finally gives way. And he's in.  
  
Finnick takes in his surroundings with a glance, but nothing makes sense at first. Moonlight spills through a window. Then he slowly starts to realize he's on a train. He's alone in the room with the screaming girl. Her name is Annie Cresta. And it's her compartment he just broke into.  
  
Annie's now not only screaming, she's retreating as far away from him as she can. Panicked, she's abandoned the bed entirely and is now pressing her back into the far corner, eyes never leaving him. Now that he's half awake, he realizes she must have woken to find her nightmare coming true.  
  
Still shaky himself, heart pounding, and groggy, Finnick tries to comfort her. "Look, Annie, I'm sorry. It's all right. I just-" He's afraid he mostly comes across sounding impatient, nor can his sleepy brain dredge up the right words to reassure her.  
  
Not that any of his words are getting through anyway. Annie's eyes are following the movements of his right hand, which he now realizes holds a knife. With her own right hand, and without looking away, she's groping on the table next to her.  
  
Trying to repair this situation, Finnick, very slowly, where she can see him, sets down his knife on the nearest flat surface and raises his empty hands, palms forward. "Annie, I'm not here to hurt you-"  
  
Finnick dodges the flying bowl just in time. Behind him, he hears crystal shattering.  
  
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath. "Mags!" he shouts at the top of his lungs. He can hear sounds from the adjacent compartment, but she moves much less quickly than he does. By the time she gets here, she'll be just in time to undo the damage he's done.  
  
When the door opens, Finnick is as relieved as Annie is to see Mags. "You-" In desperation, he waves his hand broadly to encompass the room and everything in it. "I can't fix this. You fix it."  
  
Trying to retain some shred of dignity, Finnick goes back to his own room. He managed in his earlier frenzy to unseat the knob, which now doesn't close properly, so he has to prop the door shut with a chair. He throws himself down on the bed. "I had _just_ started to fall asleep."  
  
Then he remembers he left his knife with Annie. Going back to get it, probably not a good idea.  
  
"Mags had better fix this." He's feeling physically ill with the rush of adrenaline that was dumped into his bloodstream, and he could use some comforting himself.  
  
Finnick tells himself he's too old for this and that he doesn't resent Annie for needing Mags more. He turns over onto his stomach, shoves his head under the pillow, and the sleepless hours pass.  
  


* * *

  
They pass even more slowly in the compartment next to his. Annie calms herself down eventually. Anything Mags says has very little to do with it.  
  
Once she does, though, Annie is less defensive than she has been the past few days. She lets Mags sit on the bed with her.  
  
"I'm going to see in the morning about getting you something to help you sleep," Mags promises her.  
  
"Can you find something so that I don't have to sleep ever?" Annie says despondently, and rhetorically.  
  
"You're not the only one with nightmares," Mags says. "You'd be the only one _without_ them if you didn’t have them. Why do you think Finnick came charging in here out of a sound sleep?"  
  
"Was that who that was? All I could think was armed Career."  
  
Annie watched Evan die after she involuntarily cried out in alarm, bringing three armed Careers down onto their position. Then she wakes up crying out in alarm, no doubt dreaming of Evan, only to find her door being broken down. By an armed Career. Great. Mags knows better than to ask herself if the situation can get any more messed up, because she knows it can.  
  
"Why did you leave me alone with them at dinner?" Annie wants to know. "You were my only ally."  
  
"Oh, Annie." Mags tentatively puts her arm around the girl's shoulders, fearing another rebuff, but Annie stays very still. "I did the only thing I could do to make Octavius be quiet: I caused a scene. And I told Finnick to make sure he stayed quiet after that. That was all I could do for you. I tried to catch you afterwards to explain, but-"  
  
Annie stares down at the bedspread, not saying anything.  
  
"Was it any better after that?" Mags prompts. If she did the wrong thing...not that there was a right one.  
  
Annie just shrugs. "They're all Careers."  
  
Trained killers. Mags, who's trained them to kill, can't fault her. "But they're my Careers. Don't be too hard on Octavius. He volunteered, but got in way over his head. He refused treatment once he was able to do so--that's why he's in a wheelchair--and he's been living inside his own head since then. He won't hurt you, or anyone." Other than himself. It's actually very hard for Mags to figure out how to talk about how damaged the other victors are without scaring Annie.  
  
"Brine's friendly and sociable, but he's under strict instructions not to bother you if you want to be left alone." Strictly speaking, she'd left out the last clause when talking to Brine. There'll be time enough if Annie decides she's ready to come out of her shell. Meanwhile, Mags isn't giving Brine an inch.  
  
"Don't accidentally sneak up on Rudder, and otherwise he tends to ignore everyone.  
  
"Donn you know. He's my mentoring partner most years. He's the oldest surviving victor other than me, lots of experience, and he's great with the tributes. You can go to him for anything.  
  
"Finnick's the youngest. I'll always have a soft spot for him. I trained them all, but Finnick lived with me until he got his own house in the Victors' Village. He can be a little self-absorbed, but he's got a good heart under it." Mags concludes with gentle humor, "And if there ever is a real threat, he's the one you want breaking into your room in the middle of the night."  
  
What a mess.  
  
"And I'm the crazy one," Annie says, flatly. "Welcome to the pack."  
  
"Annie..."  
  
"I'm going to be a great mentor when you're dead," Annie continues brightly, hearing nothing in her self-loathing. "District Four's run of producing victors comes to an end. Glorious obscurity."  
  
Mags knows when she has to lose a battle for the sake of the war. "Annie, I can't help you if you won't let me. You're holding up better than you're giving yourself credit for, and someday I mean to get you to see that. I know you still see me as the enemy. I won't say that I blame you. If I could protect you from the Peacekeepers, I would, and I wouldn't be here enforcing these rules."  
  
It's by far the hardest moral dilemma Mags faces. Who drags terrified, abused children through the hoops the Capitol sets, while professing to be opposed to the whole idea? Claiming passive resistance is all very well, but she still has to sleep at night.  
  
She's suddenly very tired. "If one day you can see all that, honey, then I'm here for you." She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and stands up. "I'll look for sleeping pills in the morning."  
  
"Are you leaving again?" Annie's reproachful voice comes from the bed.  
  
Mags pauses on her way to the door. Resisting the urge to soften, because she knows she needs to set limits, she replies very matter-of-factly, "Yes, if you think I'm the enemy. If you think I'm on your side, then I'll stay near as long as you want." This is how she's gotten every single victor and trainee in Four, including the untamed alphas who think they're invincible, to treat her with respect.  
  
"I'm sorry." Annie's anger is only a shield against fear and grief, as becomes all too heart-breakingly clear when the shield drops. "I know you're only doing what you're told too. I know they'll kill you if you don't."  
  
Mags stays.  
  


* * *

  
Finnick hands Mags a cup of coffee when she emerges the next morning. He's on his second.  
  
Mags accepts it gratefully. She's sporting dark circles under her reddened eyes, and looking like she might collapse on the spot. If Finnick didn't know how much tougher she is than she looks, he'd be ready to catch her before she falls. As it is, he just pushes the breakfast tray over to her side of the table and returns to his mirror.  
  
He had the same problems, but he's already rousted a couple of Annie's stylists out of bed to touch up his face. They did a passable job, and there shouldn't be any problems if he has to cover for her. Which is looking more and more likely as the morning wears on and she doesn't make an appearance.  
  
Mags is wearier by the minute, but fiercely and consistently shuts down any criticism of Annie from any of the party in the breakfast room.  
  
"Well," she finally says at T minus ten minutes, returning alone from a foray into Annie's room, "we have two options. We carry her out there before the Peacekeepers do it and less gently."  
  
By 'we', she of course means him. Finnick presses his lips together without hesitation. "Nope. Not touching that with a ten-foot pole."  
  
Candy and Annie's stylists are wringing their hands frantically, and Mags doesn't look to them for help.  
  
"Then we convincingly fake illness."  
  
"'Fake'?"  
  
"Physical, Finnick.” Mags lets her annoyance show. “Something the Capitol will accept. Even if they don’t buy it, we cooperate by ensuring the public buys it.” The one thing that will not be tolerated is any message that you can get out of the Victory Tour by refusing insistently enough.  
  
Finnick shrugs. "Give me her cards, then. You're the expert on faking illness."  
  
With a plan from Mags, everyone snaps into action. "I'll need to tweak them, add a bit at the beginning, make them speaker-agnostic-" Candy grabs the cards and begins writing in a frenzy. Finnick's sure he can ad lib it and probably will anyway, but whatever makes everyone feel useful.  
  
Her stylists begin arguing with each other about the fastest illness they can whip up, and Mags herds them toward Annie's room, vetoing suggestions as they go.  
  
"It's almost like we're a team," Finnick mutters, low enough that Mags ignores him after glancing back once. He knows that look; it was a silent promise to deal with him later.  
  


* * *

  
Annie's sleeping, and Mags would love to be, but she still has one unsolved problem to address. Finnick's been as difficult as he can get away with while still technically cooperating. Now is not a good time for him to start acting twelve again, if he doesn't want to be strangled.  
  
But then she remembers that he was woken up out of a nightmare too, and some of her annoyance dissolves into pity. If she has to choose between telling him off and getting to the root of the problem...well, that's an easy choice.  
  
After checking that Annie's all right, she turns to the adjacent compartment and knocks softly.  
  
"Door's broken. Come on in."  
  
Mags steps in, trying not to make any noise that might wake Annie. "Rough night last night?"  
  
It takes her eyes a minute to adjust to the dark, but she gathers he's lying in bed, and the curtains are tightly closed. Mags left Annie's open so that she'll know where she is if she wakes suddenly in the night.  
  
Mags comes over and sits on the edge of his bed.  
  
"Mm," Finnick says noncommittally. "I've been having, not nightmares exactly, but...vivid dreams. It's the train, happens every year. It would have been fine."  
  
He sighs when her hand meets his hair, as though this is what he's been needing all along. Mags melts. All her teenagers, all so tough and standoffish, wanting to seem more grown up than they are. And then Finnick, who, when he finally decided to open up to her, didn't waste time fighting himself and trying to hold back. He's self-assured enough to exchange affection with her without hesitation. And not with anyone else that she's seen.  
  
_I'll always have a soft spot for him_ , she said to Annie. Yeah, to put it mildly. She keeps telling herself she knows how to work praise into getting him to do what she wants, but, looked at from another angle, he's suspiciously good at getting the praise he wants out of her.  
  
Well, if he's not fighting their closeness, neither will she. "No one could even tell you were tired today. Your delivery was so brilliant, I wish I could do that. You were definitely the right one to have here."  
  
"Just bring me along as backup on all the Victory Tours," Finnick offers, casually conceited, laughing when she playfully smacks him before she returns to caressing his hair.  
  
"I always have the victors doing what they're best at, when I need something done." Mags feels the persuasive speech forming in her mind, the next words she needs there when she reaches for them. "You know that's why Rudder trains them before the Reaping and Donn mentors them afterward, and that's why I waited for you at the Victory banquet when Brine was more than ready to escort me out of the room. You know that being a victor can be difficult on nights like this, and being a mentor keeps you busy."  
  
Finnick nods. "Yeah, I do. I've been forming all the connections in the Capitol and learning as much as I can for you. Getting our tributes sponsors,” he adds, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening.  
  
She actually counts herself extraordinarily lucky that he's such a natural at it. She and Rudder had originally only been banking on his weapons prowess, but his charm is proving even more deadly. It takes a whole army to fight a war, but only one spy to ferret out a secret. "I know, just imagine if _I_ tried to be a playboy."  
  
"Mags!" Finnick laughs, and laughs some more, and finally when he can't stop laughing, she has to shush him because Annie's in the next room and the door is ajar. "Mags, you're crazy."  
  
"You're irreplaceable. And you're getting older and better at what you do, and I'm going to need more and more from you at home as well."  
  
"You keep doing this, you know," Finnick informs her. "You praise me to the skies, and then somehow I turn around and that's been translated into more responsibility and higher expectations."  
  
Mags laughs. They know each other too well. "Well, does it work?"  
  
"It works," Finnick mock complains. "I wish it didn't. Well, out with it, what do you need?"  
  
"To begin with, when we get home, and before then if possible, although I don't think it will be, I'd like you to work on getting Annie to stop being afraid of you."  
  
"Wow, you sure didn't begin with the easy one." Finnick sighs, annoyed. "This is important?" he prods. "The most important thing I could be doing with my time?"  
  
That's her Finnick. He'll do it if she convinces him, but first he needs to argue and make sure it's been well thought out. "This is important, for our long-term plans. I need a cohesive team, and to get that, I need her to stop being afraid of everyone who's not me."  
  
"How is Donn not the obvious place to start?" It's a good question, as Donn is the obvious choice: Annie already knows him, and he's much mellower than Finnick.  
  
"Gut feeling?" Mags hesitates. "She doesn't confide in me, so it's hard to tell what's going through her head. But Donn and I were her mentors, and I think she resents us for that. You're untainted by association with her Games."  
  
"So you're going to get all the victors one by one to convince her we're less scary than we really are, and you're just starting with me?"  
  
That isn't an argument, that's a complaint, and Mags meets it with firmness. "Finnick, I never said that being a mentor was easy."  
  
"What do you want me to do, then, win her over with my charm?"  
  
"As always, I leave the execution up to you. I might point out that you have a few things in common, like age, bad dreams, a noticeable lack of visits from family..." She feels Finnick stiffen. That struck a nerve. "I don't expect you to spend a lot of time with her. Just do what it takes to convince her that she can approach you if she needs to."  
  
"You know I'll do it," Finnick says. "Is that all?"  
  
"That would be a tremendous help."  
  
She feels a slow, mischievous smile reach Finnick's cheek under her hand. "You know...I do get visits from _one_ family member. Even late at night when she's really tired."  
  
Does Finnick even know, Mags wonders, what it meant when he came into her life? Maybe he will someday, if he keeps mentoring tributes. "I decided not to have children," she confesses, "because I didn't want to see them in the arena. But somehow I ended up with them anyway."  
  


* * *

  
This isn't going to end well. He's knocked and waited, knocked and waited, and nothing. Only the force of Mags' personality makes Finnick break out the key she gave him and open the front door to Annie's house in the Victors' Village. At least he isn't destroying the knob this time, he thinks with dark humor.  
  
In and out, drop off the pills, and get back to work. Though it’s not required of victors, Finnick still spends a great deal of time out on the water, bringing in the catch, hauling cargo, and generally throwing in a hand wherever it's needed. Building connections in the Capitol is done with charm and subterfuge; here it's done with relentless labor, side by side with those who have no choice.  
  
_He may be a playboy, but he's_ _our_ _playboy_ is the attitude in District Four, and that's the way he wants to keep it.  
  
So he's got plans for today.  
  
Annie's at her kitchen table when he comes in. If he felt as threatened as she looks, he'd have grabbed a knife from a drawer, but she's just sitting perfectly still. Only her eyes move, following his entrance.  
  
"Mags sent this." Finnick holds up the paper bag he's carrying. "Should keep you sleeping for another two weeks."  
  
"Thanks." Annie doesn't move to take it, though, so he sets it down on the table in front of her.  
  
"Let me know if you want me to pick anything else up. I'm going out today, and I can drop it off when I get back this evening."  
  
Annie studies him without saying anything. He's towering over her where she sits, but she hasn't flinched away yet. Not like she did every time they were in the same room on the Victory Tour.  
  
_Convince her that she can approach you if she needs to_ , Mags' voice says in his head.  
  
Finnick tries to smile at her reassuringly. _You're going about this all wrong,_ he tells Mags' voice. _She needs low-key, and I only have one mode: intense._  
  
_Tough._ "I mean it. Let me know if you think of anything."  
  
At that, Annie tilts her head thoughtfully. "I don't want to impose." Her voice is rusty from disuse.  
  
"Mags does," he tells her, still smiling. "Mags wants me to barge in here and demand that you impose on me."  
  
The frozen facade cracks when she smiles. "Well, if it will make Mags happy...I put together this whole list of ingredients for recipes I was going to learn, but I haven't made it out of the house. I have too much time on my hands and finally the money to buy food, so I thought I might try experimenting, but I can't seem to..." She trails off, looking down at the floor in embarrassment.  
  
"I'll make you a deal." Finnick thrusts out his hand to shake on it. "Give me your list, I'll fetch what you need, and then when you learn to cook, I'll take out my payment in food later."  
  
Annie hesitates, but his confidence is irresistible, and she finally breaks her paralysis to touch his hand with the tips of her fingers. "But what if I'm not any good at it?"  
  
"Raspberry scones." Finnick winks at her. "Learn to make raspberry scones, and I will be your slave." He makes to close his hand around hers, but she retreats quickly, and he lets her go. It was a while, he remembers, before he stopped evaluating someone reaching for him in terms of how to block it with a weapon. He was on edge all through his media blitz, and covered it by playing off the jitteriness as excitement.  
  
"But more seriously, I'm going to set you up with one of the district kids. We pay some of the twelve-year-olds to take out laundry and run errands like these. You won't have to leave the house, and it means they won't have to take as many tesserae."  
  
Annie nods. "I'd like that a lot. I'd like to help save someone else. Thank you," she whispers.  
  


* * *

  
She's maybe a bit less jumpy around him, but Mags says it's not enough. Annie needs to feel comfortable reaching out to the other victors on her own, so Finnick needs to keep at it. Mags is starting Donn on her as well, she tells Finnick.  
  
"What was your first impression?"  
  
Finnick shrugs. "She's...different. She doesn't look at me like I'm desirable. It's like she doesn't see me at all. I could be anyone who might kill her at any moment."  
  
Mags just shrugs like this should be obvious. "Did you come up with an excuse to go back?"  
  
"Of course. Come on, I do this stuff instinctively."  
  
Mags swats at his hand in mock discipline. "So keep doing it, if you're so good at it."  
  


* * *

  
"No family to come visit you?" Finnick opens over cranberry muffins, which she says are easier than raspberry scones. The food he knows how to cook comes out of the ocean, so baking is all equally mysterious magic to him.  
  
It's a leading question, as Finnick already knows the answer is no, but Mags didn't give him any details. Only a pointed reminder that he should know what that was like.  
  
Annie shakes her head. "Just my aunt, and...I think she was relieved when I was reaped and not one of her blood children. But she didn't have to take me in when the boat my mother was on capsized, and she did."  
  
Finnick flinches. Maybe Mags was onto something after all, picking him to start with Annie. "Mine had her legs crushed by a falling crate. You know, the accident rate doesn't need to be this high. They just—they're culling the herd."  
  
Annie doesn't want to talk about that, though. "Your father?"  
  
"Complicated. Yours?"  
  
"She never married. That's why I went to her sister." Annie tenses at first, but then relaxes again when Finnick doesn't react to her lack of a father.  
  
"Ah. Mine are both still alive, but I don't see them either. They view me as someone who went over to the other side. Collaborator, defector, traitor. They were opposed to me training for the Games then, and they're opposed to my public appearances in the Capitol now."  
  
His mother had initially been more sympathetic, imagining that he wanted the extra food that goes to Career tributes-in-training. His father was unrelenting in his principles from the beginning and wanted nothing to do with the oppressive government, food or otherwise. Now nothing Finnick does in District Four will allay their sense of betrayal. Though that doesn't stop him from trying.  
  
"So Mags raised you?"  
  
"I started spending more and more time at her place while I was in training, and then gradually, yes." Finnick pauses. Memories that are deeply buried are rising to the surface. Annie's not looking for sympathy or giving it, and somehow that makes it easier to talk. "You want an example of how extreme it is? My mother isn't earning much, and she has medical expenses, and still they won't accept anything from me, because it's 'tainted' money."  
  
"Really? That's hard-core. My aunt will take anything she can get, with a remark to the effect that it's the least I can do for the trouble and expense of feeding me all those years."  
  
Finnick is indignant. "She complained about that?" Even if it was true, it was hardly Annie's fault.  
  
"All the time. I'm supposed to just be grateful she didn't let me starve. Which she didn't," Annie defends.  
  
"How did the tessera distribution work out between you and her blood children?" Finnick asks, guessing, and Annie nods grimly. District Four can't reliably turn up two volunteers every year the way One and Two can, and last Games, there was no female volunteer. Those few minutes of waiting must have been terrible for Annie, knowing that she had a better than even chance, and then the crushing despair when she was dragged onto a train.  
  
"The odds were not exactly in my favor," Annie agrees. "Or yours, for that matter. Even if you were in training, you were reaped so young."  
  
Finnick grins, and his eyes light up. "Tell you a secret."  
  
Annie raises an eyebrow, inviting elaboration.  
  
"The victors know, but no one else. I was ready. I wanted the other Careers ignoring me. I didn't want them knowing I volunteered. So I arranged for my name to be drawn from the Reaping bowl."  
  
Her eyes go wide. "You can do that?!"  
  
"No, but...I mean, it's no different in effect from volunteering. And it gave District Four the advantage. So a few well-placed people looked the other way. Plus I arranged it with the other male trainees that none of them would volunteer if I was called."  
  
Annie's looking into the distance, summoning up a memory of the Sixty-Fifth Games. "I guess it worked."  
  
"Sure did. But it has to stay a secret, or One and Two will forever hunt down whoever's reaped from Four first thing, regardless of plausibility."  
  
That makes Annie shudder. Finnick curses himself for forgetting who he's talking to, but what else do they have to talk about? Honesty forces him to admit, though, that he has less to blame a lack of conversational material, and more that he was getting relaxed enough to say whatever came into his head. It's so rare that he has nothing to hide, nothing he wants to get, and no need for the endless game of mutual doublespeak to hide the revolutionaries’ meaning from anyone who might be listening in. He's an expert in saying one thing and meaning another, but the vigilance it demands is exhausting. Sincerity, though, is turning out to be equally difficult.  
  
Sure enough, Annie's being polite, but she's definitely pulling away.  
  
"I'm glad you came by. Did Mags--how often did Mags ask you to come?"  
  
They're both treading carefully. Finnick feels like it's his job to be the confident one, but he wants to get this right, and he's already said the wrong thing. "She said every few days." Then, being Finnick, he tries to lighten the moment with humor. "I must warn you, your reputation is now ruined forever."  
  
"Hardly seems like there'd be anyone left with a reputation to speak of, in that case," she needles.  
  
"You're not what I expected, you know," Finnick confesses, going for sincerity again.  
  
"What did you expect?" she asks. "Swooning? Falling into your arms?" She might be serious, but he hopes she's teasing. It's hard to tell.  
  
"You don't think I get enough of that in the Capitol? We're all using each other there, and we all know it. No, I don't know, I didn't expect conversation." Finnick tries to say it diplomatically, but Annie knows her real reputation is the incoherent, sobbing, mad girl.  
  
"Come by when they're showing footage of the Games, and you'll see what you expect," Annie says, bitterly.  
  
"I will, if you want me to." He's not sure why he offers, except that part of him is still seething with fury and helplessness that the only tribute he's mentored yet, last year, didn't make it out alive. He wants to _do_ something, make a difference.  
  
Annie's hesitating. "I probably couldn't handle company on a bad day," she admits. "And I'm sure you're much too busy."  
  
Finnick scoffs. "I'm a playboy. A man of leisure. I do what I please." He bows elaborately in a caricature of himself, arms spread wide. "At your disposal."  
  
She's still not sure, but she smiles briefly. "You're not what I expected, either."  
  
"I can laugh at myself? I can laugh at anything, it's how I cope. Scones next time?" he wheedles.  
  
It's painfully obvious that banter is not familiar ground for Annie. "I can't promise anything." She looks guilty and tense again. "You shouldn't expect anything from me. You'll just be disappointed."  
  
Finnick tries to buoy her confidence. "Pfff, what you need is more faith in yourself."  
  
"I just told you no," Annie retorts. "How much guts do you think that took?"  
  
His eyebrows fly up. _I knew this wouldn't end well_.  
  
The easiest thing in the world right now would be to walk away and tell Mags she can solve this problem herself if she thinks it's so solvable. Instead, in a fit of pique, he decides to lay Mags' cards on the table. If Mags isn't going to make this easy on him, he's not going to feel any obligation to make it easy on her.  
  
"Look," he says levelly, "if we go back and start over, would you prefer bluntness?"  
  
It's a long time before Annie answers. He watches her draw in on herself again, after her brief foray into conversation earlier. Finally, she speaks, in a low, hurt voice. "Do your worst. I already know I'm mad."  
  
Finnick takes a deep breath and begins in a clipped tone, "We have a tight circle of victors. Mags wants you part of it. Since you don't leave the house, that means we come here. If you have an interest in cooking, I'm happy to encourage it, but really I just need an excuse to come back. I'll bring the damn scones." He doesn't know why he's suddenly so committed to making this work, but he has his pride. He hasn't failed at a task from Mags yet.  
  
"What do you want from me?" She's so quiet he has to read her lips.  
  
That should be an easy question, but much to Finnick's surprise, he discovers it's not. "I don't know," he admits.  
  
"What does she want?" In a rare moment of empathy, because he knows what it's like to fight for his life, he realizes Annie must be feeling outnumbered and outmaneuvered, and he doesn't know what to do about that.  
  
"She wants you to stop being afraid of me. Us. I thought food and chatting might work. If it's not working, tell me what you think will, but she's not going to let up until you've gotten used to us..." Finnick almost stops here but, in a flash of inspiration, adds, "being nice to you."  
  
It works. Only at the very end do her eyes flicker. She's still very withdrawn, but she's thinking, not frozen in fear. "Food," she says at last. "Chatting. And honesty."  
  
He realizes suddenly that if she's afraid of everything now, it must take incredible courage to stand up for herself like this.  
  
"Honesty it is, then." Finnick holds out a hand to get her to shake on it. She doesn't reach for it, so he just holds it in midair, letting her take her time. "I warn you, I do laugh at everything. I can't change who I am."  
  
"It'll take some getting used to," Annie tells him. Even more briefly than last time, she touches his hand. "But you have yourself a deal. Bring scones. I've always wanted to try lemon."  
  


* * *

  
Annie's difficult. For someone who can be so quiet that she masquerades as passive, she proves to be the hardest challenge Finnick's ever taken on. He was _good_ at the Hunger Games. He's not good at this. But for some reason, he keeps coming back, long after Mags is satisfied he's done what she asked.  
  
He isn't always invited to stay, but Annie's always apologetic about it. If not when she turns him away, then certainly when she welcomes him back. He learns about her good days and bad days. He sees her overcome by panic, barely aware of where she is. He learns that his instinct to hold her makes her yank away and even scream, but talking calmly is a lifeline that brings her back.  
  
He gets a crash course in honesty. _I don't want you now; come back later_ means exactly what it says. In return, he stops treating her like she's fragile and tells her when she's lashing out unfairly, and she stops herself.  
  
She does learn to laugh. Humor is never her first resort the way it's Finnick's, but she slowly gets comfortable with egging him on. And she has a sense of playfulness that blossoms when she's not under constant threat.  
  
Neither of them ever figures out how to make scones, but they find a bakery cafe that they like and go there often. He comes to Mags, flushed with pride, after their first outing. _I_ _got her to leave the house_ , he boasts.  
  
Unlike Annie, Finnick does want to be touched when he's tense. "I feel like I need to launch myself at the source of the threat," he explains, "only when it's a false alarm, there's nothing to launch myself at. Then my mind figures out that everything is fine, but my body is still screaming bloody murder at me, and it's hell. Anything that convinces my body to relax gets them back in sync faster."  
  
"You don't feel like launching yourself at whoever's touching you?" Annie asks.  
  
"Just the opposite!" Finnick's eyes open wide. "I have this incredibly strong urge to grab you and protect you."  
  
"I wish being held helped _my_ episodes," she says regretfully. "I'm sure I'd feel perfectly safe. Maybe it's that my mind doesn't know everything is fine, and it needs to be convinced first. Things that move and things that touch me are threats until proven otherwise."  
  
Knowing this about him, though, Annie finds that if she reaches for him, just a hand on his arm or back, after they're both startled, being in full control of what's moving and what's touching not only doesn't make her feel threatened, it gives her something to do, and that helps.  
  
On one occasion, she knocks over a drinking glass in the living room and he comes running at the sound of shattering glass. Annie has the advantage of knowing what happened, so she pulls him calmly into a full embrace. She laughs first at him, then, in surprised delight, at herself, who didn't even bat an eye when he came flying into the room in full attack mode.  
  
"Maybe it's going to be all right," she whispers.  
  


* * *

  
From being terrified of Finnick as a Career, Annie progresses to being willing to go out only if he’s with her. It takes her a few outings for it to sink in, but anything that comes across as a threat to her, she’s convinced he can handle. Mags and Donn can’t get her out of the house, but Finnick can...some days.  
  
When it comes home to her that she feels safer with Finnick, they’re sitting outdoors at their favorite cafe, enjoying the sun, the food, and the company. After a lifetime of malnourishment, Annie’s determined to sample everything on the menu. She half-jokes to Finnick that this is why she keeps letting him coax her back.  
  
Finnick habitually nibbles his pastry and passes the rest to her. The first time Annie realized he was about to leave behind a barely touched piece of food on his plate, she leaned over and snatched it up, wrapping it in a napkin to take home.  
  
_They looked at each other in mutual shock for a minute, and then Finnick started laughing. “I’ve never gotten past the strict diet of training,” he explained. “You take it.”_  
  
_Narrowing her eyes, Annie did. “Leaving food to be thrown out,” she muttered disapprovingly._  
  
“ _It doesn’t get thrown out,” Finnick corrected gently. “It gets distributed to someone who won’t mind that there are a few bites missing.”_  
  
_Someone hungry, in other words._  
  
“ _Oh, okay.” Annie hesitated then, holding her napkin-wrapped package, and wondering if she should leave it behind after all._  
  
“ _Eat it,” Finnick encouraged her. “You can stand to put on some weight and still look good. I can’t. And I have to keep my physique.”_  
  
Annie still had to, in person, actually watch the baker set the leftovers out in the alley behind the bakery, before she could bring herself to walk away from food on the table. She can still barely make herself stop eating when she’s full. It takes an effort, especially when the food is as good as this.  
  
Aside from the occasional point of culture shock that they hit, though—the Career prodigy and the girl who grew up hungry—Finnick understands her.  
  
When a slammed door behind Annie sets off every alarm in her head, and she’s fighting to keep from diving under the table, searching for words to explain why she needs to run home _right now_ , Finnick begins calmly, “A woman and a boy, probably her son. He was in a great hurry and went charging inside; that’s why the door slammed. It’s probably his first time here. Maybe it’s his birthday, or they suddenly came into some windfall. Or maybe he just likes charging everywhere he goes.” Finnick smiles mischievously. “I can relate.”  
  
Slowly, Annie feels her panic subside under the level of detail Finnick’s providing. He goes on describing the woman and boy, not hesitating to throw in his speculations, until finally she can speak again.  
  
“I think I need to sit with my back to the wall.” It’s not exactly a normal thing to say, but it’s a lot saner than anything she was going to say a few minutes ago.  
  
“I was always trained to make sure I was either covering my own back, or I had an ally watching it,” Finnick agrees.  
  
Then Annie looks closely at him for the first time, and she sees the vestiges of tension. The door startled him too, and the only difference was that he could see behind her to what was happening. Otherwise he'd be, not hiding under the table, but on his feet, whirling around, and then sick to his stomach when there was nothing to fight.  
  
She glances behind him, smiles shakily, and announces, “All clear.”  
  
When Finnick rewards her with a brilliant smile, Annie suddenly realizes there are a hundred reasons she’ll come out with him and not with anyone else. Yes, if shit were really going down behind her, he’d be the one who could take it on. But more than that, he treats her like she’s normal in a situation like this, with no fuss. And he’s as grateful as she is to have someone who understands _._  
  
Annie knows he’ll understand when she moves her foot under the table to stroke his leg. Reassuring him with touch that it was only a false alarm, and that she’s here to watch his back.  
  
On another occasion, the only way Finnick coaxes her out is with a promise that they will sit with their backs to a wall this time. But when they step inside the cafe, Annie says briskly, “Nope,” and turns around to leave.  
  
“No, that one.” Finnick gestures toward the corner. “It’s perfect.”  
  
“But it’s occupied!”  
  
Annie swears the only time he looks at her like she’s crazy is when she’s saying something perfectly reasonable. But sure enough, a minute later, the occupants are agreeably moving to another booth.  
  
She could never do that, not even if she was sure they’d recognize her. It would feel too much like pity. Even now, she’s convinced both parties glanced at her, the mad girl, then back to Finnick, before yielding their table.  
  
But Finnick’s used to getting what he wants, and now he’s got her sitting here at the corner booth, trying something else on the menu and telling him what he’s going to order for dessert so she can finish it when he’s done.  
  
“I come for the company,” Finnick says, and orders whatever she picks out.  
  
“Were you threatened with dire punishments if you ate dessert?” Annie asks. Talking about the arena still makes her queasy, but if she wants to get to know Finnick, they’re going to have to talk about training. It was the focal point of his life until he was fourteen.  
  
“Oh, let me tell you about the food regimen!” Finnick exclaims. She hears all about the rigors of training, and she has to interrupt when he’s talking about Rudder.  
  
“He used to throw rocks and stuff at you while you were eating? So you’re used to having to deal with threats on occasions like this!”  
  
Finnick confirms. The trainees were reminded not to expect the arena to allow them to finish a meal in peace. Rudder kept them on guard, never knowing when an attack would come.  
  
Annie’s shaking her head in disbelief. She thought training was just learning to use a weapon, not this many-faceted introduction to the mindset of the arena. “Then you ended up with a really good set of reflexes, only, like me...a little _too_ good.”  
  
“Exactly. What’s good enough to keep you alive there is much, much too good for a boring old bakery like this. Speaking of which, have you tried the cheesecake?”  
  
Annie makes an incoherent sound of urgency. “I’m stuffed!” she protests.  
  
Finnick chuckles. “Cheesecake next time, then.”  
  
“Cheesecake this time,” Annie contradicts. She picks up her plate and carries it back to the counter. Even without looking, she can feel his laughing eyes following her.  
  
When she returns with a tiny piece, she plops the plate down in the middle of the table. “And you can help me with this, since this is all your fault.”  
  
After a single bite, though, Finnick sets down his fork.  
  
“No, really, what will they do to you if they catch you eating cheesecake? I won’t tell, I promise,” she teases.  
  
“It’s not that,” he explains, grinning. “Most of the trainees, yes, walking away from food took a lot of willpower out of them.”  
  
“You said most were there for the food,” Annie interjects.  
  
“Some,” he agrees. “But even the ambitious ones, training was hard on them. For some reason, for me, it was different. All I wanted was someone to point me in the right direction to achieve my goal. Mags and Rudder supplied that. Most of the other trainers were too easy on me; they never ended up in the arena. Even Donn and Brine. But if Rudder had a diet worked out for the trainees, and had calculated it carefully to inure us to fasting without harming us, I was just grateful to have the guidance. I couldn’t train on my own at the age of thirteen.”  
  
“And at the age of twenty?”  
  
Finnick hesitates. He’s never been reluctant to rib himself about his vanity, so Annie watches him with curiosity. When the silence drags on long enough, she prods, “You’re deciding whether to tell me something?”  
  
He nods. “Let’s just say...what I’m up to now is a much better kept secret than what I was up to at fourteen.”  
  
“When you had sponsors.”  
  
“Exactly. I don’t need sponsors now, but I do need certain people to be dazzled into not questioning what I’m really after.” Finnick pauses. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be mysterious. I’m seriously considering telling you something I don’t normally share.”  
  
“I’ll keep any secrets you tell me,” Annie assures him.  
  
“And if it were just my secret, I’d have told you by now. But there are other people involved to whom I’m sworn to secrecy.”  
  
“Yet you’re considering telling me anyway?”  
  
“I am authorized to bring someone into our confidence, if I decide they’re the right person.”  
  
“‘Authorized’?!” Annie stares at him. “This is sounding less like a romantic secret and more like life and death.”  
  
“Annie, if I had any romantic secrets that interesting, I’d definitely have told you. My life is thoroughly public on that front. No, it’s the latter, and if you’d rather not know, we can change the subject, and no more will be said.”  
  
“It’s up to you,” Annie finally decides. “If there’s anything I can do to help, anything you need from me, you can ask me without telling me the details. Or you can tell me.”  
  
Finnick’s mouth tightens. He’s struggling with this decision. “The conditions of me telling you would be these: not only can you not bring it up with anyone else, or let anything slip, I need you not to bring it up with me either. There are places and times when it’s safe to talk, and those change. At least unless you get familiar enough with the risks to make that call yourself.”  
  
“My lips will be sealed,” she promises.  
  
Annie’s still in for a shock when she realizes there’s a rebellion in the making. A very, very slow rebellion, about which only a few people know. It’s not allowed to break out until Mags gives the word, and Finnick’s bringing her every bit of intelligence from the Capitol that he can get. Among his lovers, some are willing co-conspirators, some are telling him important information without realizing it, some are being spied on, and others are mere diversions to get him in the right place at the right time.  
  
Only at the end of this conversation does Annie realize he’s been guiding her to draw the right conclusions. He hasn’t said a word that would condemn him if it were overheard by a casual passerby, though anyone eavesdropping on the entire exchange would naturally come to the same conclusions. Finnick’s been watching to make sure no one’s eavesdropping. Sitting in the corner helps with that.  
  
“Wow, that’s...” Annie flounders for words. “Going to take a while to process. Though I’m not exactly surprised, in hindsight. Well, you’re very surprising, but not the...” She finally says “context,” settling on it as a suitably non-incriminating word, and Finnick nods his approval at her discretion.  
  
“Good, you’re supposed to be surprised about me. If anyone ever says, ‘I knew it all along,’ then my cover’s blown and I need to go dark.”  
  
“So you’re not really a pretty boy?” she says in a low voice, smiling.  
  
“I am an _extremely_ pretty boy,” Finnick boasts, “and now you see why it’s important that I remain one.”  
  
“No more tempting you with cheesecake, then,” Annie agrees.  
  
“You eat it.” Finnick winks. “I like watching you enjoy your food. You don’t look half as starved as you did a year ago.”  
  
“It’s not worth it,” she tells him slowly. The terror, the pain, the certainty of her own death before the flood, the nightmares, the public humiliation, the frequent meltdowns, the fear of leaving her own house and of every person she meets... “But if I’m stuck living with everything that’s already happened, dessert is one of the only things that can make a day tolerable. Coming here with you is starting to feel downright familiar.”  
  
“I’m glad.” Finnick smiles. “Let’s try making some other places familiar?”  
  
Fear has a physical component for Annie: nausea, the blood rushing to her face and pounding there, and a dimming of her vision along with her concentration. Everything freezes, until finally she comes back to herself.  
  
No, he’s right. It’s what she keeps telling herself. If she makes going out a habit, it’ll become less terrifying. But that’s hard to do when it’s so terrifying to begin with. “If we take it slowly?”  
  
“As slowly as you like,” Finnick promises. “My house is a lot like yours, to start with. They’re all built along the same floorplan.”  
  
“Oh, really?” She hasn’t been in any of the others.  
  
“Yeah, no one got creative. But mine is furnished more elaborately.”  
  
Finnick's laughing to himself in anticipation of her reaction, and Annie has to think for a minute before she makes the connection. Then she kicks him affectionately under the table. “With all your fancy gifts from Capitol lovers?”  
  
“Naturally.”  
  
“Well, I’ll have to come by someday—not today—and listen to you tell all the stories behind them. Since you like the sound of your own voice so much,” she needles.  
  
This time, Annie’s the first to extend her hand to shake on the deal. She’s starting to move Finnick from “Career liable to hunt her down” to “Career designated to guard her back.”  
  
She just hopes it ends better than Evan.  
  


* * *

  
Finnick's the first person who tells Annie she isn't crazy. Or maybe he's not, and he's just the first person she believes.  
  
"I don't want to spend the rest of my life in the arena,” she tells him on one of their outings. There are a few inland ponds where people can come to be on the water and yet away from the noise and overwhelming fish smell of the shore. They can row, swim, lie on the grass by the water...and most of all, speak more freely than at home. Finnick would rather be out on the ocean, but Annie finds the crowding and noise oppressive and can feel her stomach curdling at the thought of being around so many people. It's quiet here, and Finnick agreed to come because anything that gets Annie outside is a step forward. “It's been over a year, and I haven't been able to get out."  
  
Everyone says that no one ever leaves the arena, but Annie's always thought that was just a platitude to make her feel better. Why is everyone else so functional, going to the Capitol for parties every year, and basking in Flickerman's spotlight, when she can barely leave the house? Well, except for Octavius. And Donn on a bad day. But even he spends more years mentoring tributes than anyone, except Mags.  
  
But Finnick's special. He made it look easy: youngest ever, laughs about everything, has the world in the palm of his hand. So when he talks about the strain of violent dreams and jumping at shadows, she listens.  
  
"Every time I'm with you," Finnick confesses, "I can't stop thinking, what if the Careers come for us, what is our strategy going to be, what if the roof caves in, what if the ground opens up and fifty mutts leap out?"  
  
Annie's nodding vigorously. "I'm not _crazy_ , I know we're not there, but...I can't stop."  
  
"I can't stop," Finnick echoes.  
  
"Even when I was in the arena, I kept catching myself wishing you were there, because, well, you can do anything. Everyone knows _t_ _hat_."  
  
She expects him to grin in self-mockery as he usually does at references to his exalted status, but he merely looks pained. No, he can't do everything, and he knows it.  
  
"But every time I did, I'd remember that only one of us could come out alive. Either you'd have to die, or you wouldn't be able to save me in the end. Most likely, both."  
  
"That's the hell of it." Finnick grimaces. "They always make us choose. No alliance lasts to the end. I couldn't save my district partner either."  
  
Annie shrugs. "She wasn't interested in doing much for you. She headed straight off to join the Career pack. I got mine killed."  
  
"Annie, the Capitol got him killed."  
  
"It was the last thing he said before he died. _Why do you have to ruin everything?_ "  
  
"Annie, no, you didn't-"  
  
"I gave us away," Annie insists desperately. "I gave away our position." Worse than a burden, she was a liability.  
  
Finnick's shaking his head. He was watching when it happened, of course. "Mags had her own take on what happened that year. She didn't tell you?"  
  
"I didn't want to hear it. I wouldn't let her talk about what happened at all." She's been staring over his shoulder into the past, but now she looks up at him. "I know, I'm talking to you now. I'm crazy, does it have to make sense?"  
  
"Well, while we're talking, I'll tell you. Because she's almost eighty years old and she knows what she's talking about," Finnick says emphatically. "She asked him to team up with you because she thought the two of you had complementary skills. You were better with your hands, better at using the terrain to your advantage, and less likely to get yourself killed."  
  
Annie makes a small, disdainful sound.  
  
"No, she meant it. Evan made the worst choice of all, teaming up with you and taking no advantage of your strengths. Yes, we heard you startle and give away your position. Every single tribute who hasn't been trained for the arena, and most who have, panic at least once. But once he helped you up over the embankment, he should have gone up over it with you, and the two of you could have used the high ground to your advantage. You just panicked out of inexperience. He made bad decisions when he should have known better."  
  
"She said all that?"  
  
"Yeah. Donn was more laconic. You know what he said?"  
  
Annie raises her eyebrows.  
  
"'Survivor's guilt is a bitch,'" Finnick quotes.  
  
Flinching, Annie looks away again. The shaft hit its mark.  
  
"You should listen to Mags. She has old person wisdom."  
  
"You always listen to her, I suppose," Annie teases. She's good at deflecting the conversation back onto the other person. Finnick's starting to catch on, but he knows it's a sign he needs to back off, and he does. Besides, he likes talking about himself.  
  
"I regret it when I don't." Finnick flashes his familiar grin.  
  
"Is there a story there?" she prods.  
  
"Why do I get the sense you want to hear all my most humiliating moments? Fine. She warned me that Cinna was interested in more than getting his designer clothes _on_ me, he was interested in getting them off again. Given that warning, I should have been a lot more prepared when he got started."  
  
Annie is amazed. It had never occurred to her that men could be vulnerable to these dangers.  
  
"But you went through with it? Or at least, you told Caesar..." She can suddenly imagine all sorts of scenarios. Surely not brute force, not on Finnick, but blackmail? Threats?  
  
"Cinna would have stopped in a heartbeat if I’d come across as less than enthusiastic, but when I realized that I didn't want to be there, I realized in the same minute that, anything I don't like, Snow can manipulate me into. So I thought I'd better make it publicly clear that I didn't mind, not at all. What's to mind?" _I have good sex with men and great sex with women_ , he said in his interview. _No such thing as bad sex._ "I threw myself into enjoying it. I'm staying one step ahead of anything they want to force me into."  
  
Annie wonders if that means they've already won, but if Finnick can set his own terms and get what he wants in return—secrets—maybe they're winning the battles and he's winning the war.  
  
Finnick strikes his vainest pose. "You can imagine what happened next."  
  
"A lot of men were suddenly very happy?" Annie joins him in his mockery, because it's what she senses he wants. The way they talk to each other, though, she wants something more than just banter. "You're like two different people, on and off camera," she says softly.  
  
"The playboy act is complicated," Finnick admits. "Mags convinced me that if I didn't make an effort to appear unthreatening, I draw too much attention to be overlooked. So we decided on irresponsible and fun-loving. Hiding in plain sight, as it were."  
  
Annie wishes she had two fully functional personalities that thrive in completely different environments and solve completely different problems. Hell, she'd settle for one.  
  
"I can't even say it's only an act. It comes too naturally and I enjoy it too much. But at the same time, it's a ploy to keep myself alive and at least somewhat free of suspicion, and it's a strategy to gather information. It's not exactly _for_ fun, although I try to _have_ fun, because otherwise I might as well still be in the arena. I guess...of the limited range of choices I've had, this is the one I've chosen, and I'm making it work for me."  
  
That’s determination for you. “Is there anyone you...I won’t say love, but anyone whose company you’ve genuinely enjoyed?” As soon as she says it, Annie knows it sounds like she’s fishing to find out if he’s available, but he understands that she’s hoping he’s found something real amidst all the glitter and manipulation.  
  
Finnick puts his elbows on his knees while he thinks how to translate his experiences into words. “I try to enjoy everything, as I said. I suppose there are people I might like and even respect, if the circumstances were different. But there is nothing genuine in the Capitol. The only honest relationship I’ve had has been with you. And I think that’s why I’ve left sex out of it for so long,” he admits. He watches her closely for signs of discomfort, but she’s just nodding.  
  
“If you want to know why I have too,” Annie begins, “well, there are several reasons. But most of all, I think you've been used for sex a lot.”  
  
Finnick gives a bark of laughter. "Welcome to the Capitol. If you've never been a fetish object, it's...on the one hand, it's flattering, because everyone's convinced you're a living god. On the other hand, these are the same people who were munching popcorn and placing bets while I was trying to stay alive at fourteen.”  
  
“Were any of them your trident sponsors?” Annie asks. She doesn’t want to pry, but he seems to want to talk about it.  
  
Finnick looks surprised, and then he nods. “There are some who want to make a big deal out of having contributed to the fund, and I have to play up my gratitude, and we end up in bed...it's not a little sick, you know?"  
  
Annie shivers. "I watched the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games, when they were munching their popcorn. I admit I wasn't thinking about you at all. _All_ I could think about was that my name was going into the Reaping bowl next year."  
  
Finnick sighs. “Everything hurts in the Hunger Games, no matter where you stand. Which reminds me, I need to warn you of something. I spend a certain amount of time publicly trash-talking Mags, as though she’s old and strait-laced, and as though I don’t listen to her because I’m young and heedless. And she does the converse for me. It not only keeps us from being used to keep each other in line, it keeps everyone underestimating us.” Finnick looks Annie in the eye seriously. “The day may come when I have to do the same to you.”  
  
Annie nods slowly. “Compare me unfavorably to the women of the Capitol, you mean? Emphasize the crazy?”  
  
The tiny lines at the corners of Finnick’s eyes crease in dread, but he’s relentless. “I don’t want anyone hurting you. And I can’t have anyone thinking I have any respect for quality.”  
  
Annie smiles at that. “I can read between the lines, I promise. I won’t hold anything you say against you. But do you mean that I could be used to keep you in line, when you said you protect Mags the same way?”  
  
“Yeah.” It’s just one word, gruffly uttered, but it speaks volumes. _I don’t want anyone hurting you._ “She did warn you?” He changes the subject slightly.  
  
Annie nods. “She said if I didn’t cooperate, they’d start threatening my loved ones, and that even if I did, they still might. Maybe not having close family ties worked in my favor. I haven’t heard from Snow or anyone else.”  
  
“Good.” Finnick hesitates. “I did. And since you half guessed, I’ll tell you something even Mags doesn’t know.”  
  
“Because you were protecting her?” Annie guesses.  
  
Finnick blinks. “You’re good at this. Yes. She knows that Snow showed up at my house, and that I headed him off at the pass and kept him from getting anywhere near threatening her or anyone else. But the details...if she guessed, she didn’t say anything. But I will tell you.”  
  
Annie listens, rapt. Finnick doesn’t just tell stories, he acts them out and brings them to life.  
  
_Mags spent four months warning him about the fallout of being a victor who wasn’t broken by the arena, so Finnick was able to keep his poise at the sight of Peacekeepers at his door the day before he departed on his Victory Tour, and then at the sight of President Snow at his desk._  
  
_Finnick nodded graciously to the President and turned on his charisma like a light switch. "Sir. What a pleasant surprise. Do you come to congratulate all the victors, or am I special?" He gave the best winning smile of a fourteen-year-old, self-centered and none too bright._  
  
_"Do have a seat, Finnick."_  
  
_Finnick obediently sat across from him._  
  
_"You put on quite the show." Snow's tone might be admiring, but Finnick wasn't fooled for a second. "Did your mentor show you the sponsorship numbers?"_  
  
_In the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games, Finnick exploded every previous record held for funds sent into the arena. Of course Mags had shown him. He played it cool. "Yeah, Donn mentioned that it was the highest. I told him all those afternoons I spent flirting with girls instead of working paid off after all."_  
  
_Officially, Donn was his mentor, Mags Livia's, and Rudder there for fun, although Finnick trusted that Snow knew that Mags runs the mentoring show in this district, that he lived with her until four months ago, and that Rudder, not Donn, sent him the trident. Finnick was adhering closely to technicalities and trying not to give Snow any leads on who was important to him._  
  
_"Yes, well, one thing they may not have told you is that your most expensive gift was never fully paid off."_  
  
_"I believe that may have come up." Finnick stalled for time while he tried to remember. Yes, that was why Mags couldn't send him medicine on the last day, or at least, one of the reasons, the other being that no one knew exactly what to send. She could have sent bread from District Four, but he couldn't eat it. "I was planning on personally thanking everyone involved." He tried playing the charisma card again._  
  
_"Oh, they're going to expect more than thanks," Snow told him. "You see, gifts in the arena have to be paid for, and you know that the winnings of past victors can't be used."_  
  
_"I am aware of that rule, sir." Finnick said something neutral, waiting until he could feel his way out of Snow's clutches._  
  
_"Then perhaps you are 'aware' of why you received so much money from the residents of the Capitol."_  
  
_No, I went for sex appeal in my interview, blew kisses after every parachute, and then had no idea where all the sponsors were coming from. But at least now he knew where this was leading. "As I said, sir, I'm planning on thanking everyone personally." Finnick winked. "Those who wish to be thanked in person, that is."_  
  
_"You know who they are?" Snow looked a little disgruntled at having his thunder stolen, and Finnick knew he needed to tread carefully. When Snow doesn't have the upper hand is when Finnick most needs him to think he does._  
  
_"I don't know anything, sir. I just didn't imagine they would be anything but forthcoming."_  
  
_"I have a list," Snow told him, grimly. He pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket over his breast. "Along with the amounts they contributed. You will...thank...them in that order."_  
  
_"I am indebted to you, sir." Finnick took the list and pocketed it. "Am I to understand that this law trumps the law about underage sex?" Sixteen was officially the age of consent, but he would be that in just about a year._  
  
_"Between you and me, I wouldn't go trumpeting it about, not unless you want everyone knowing that you're selling your body."_  
  
_If Snow expected Finnick to flinch at this upping of the stakes, he was disappointed._  
  
_"Well, Mags won't like it, but she can't tell me what to do. I got out," Finnick boasts, waving his hand around to indicate his own house._  
  
_"You don't enjoy being told what to do?" asked the ultimate authority in Panem._  
  
_"I like your rules better," answered Finnick, aligning himself with the interests of the Capitol._  
  
_"I hope you continue to see it that way," Snow said meaningfully._  
  
“ _You can rely upon it, sir. And meaning no disrespect, but where was this list four months ago?" He winked outrageously. "Surely interest has been accruing!"_  
  
_"Don't push your luck, boy," was all President Snow said, but Finnick swore he could see him hiding his amusement. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and Finnick had him like a fish on his line. He ducked his head modestly and didn’t push his luck._  
  
_"Yes, sir. Thank you for coming here, sir."_  
  
“Wow,” is all Annie can say, stunned. “Did you get, um, a list every year after that?”  
  
“You can say ‘prostitution’ if you want,” Finnick says flatly, and she just barely manages not to cringe. “No, my enthusiasm for the first list put a stop to that. I’ve made my own lists since then. Instead, I’ve put all my efforts into convincing Snow that I think he and his Hunger Games and the Capitol are the bee’s knees, and therefore I’m nothing but a sycophant he doesn’t need to worry about. Being so young helped with that, and I’ve played on it ever since. He’s practically avuncular to me these days.”  
  
Annie raises her eyebrows.  
  
“No, I’m being careful,” Finnick assures her. “He’s just as capable of playing a double game as I am. There’s certainly no chance he really feels avuncularly. But neither has he threatened anyone to my face, which he doesn’t hesitate to do if he sees anything to gain by it.”  
  
“Me neither. But then, I’m not exactly a threat,” she says wryly.  
  
Very gently, Finnick’s fingertips touch her chin until she raises her eyes to his. “You’re easy to underestimate,” he tells her. “It’s saved you before. You’re a survivor.”  
  
“I’m doing what I can to survive,” Annie concedes. “Like you. So does all this mean you can’t have a real relationship, even at home?”  
  
“Oh, no,” Finnick says quickly, “I can. In fact, I’ve made a point of having my share of flings here. It would look too suspicious if I could go months at a time without sex. I just have to play it off as something I do to pass the time between Capitol visits, but ultimately very boring compared to what's on offer there.”  
  
Finnick takes Annie’s hands. “I mean it. I can be very convincing. My life has depended on my acting ability more than once. _Do not believe_ anything you hear me say when I’m performing.”  
  
“I understand!” Annie insists. “Why is it so hard to believe I get what you’re doing and I support it?”  
  
Finnick’s lips tighten. “A couple of reasons,” he says quietly, as though he’s tiptoeing around painful memories. “I’ve tried telling people not to believe the act before, and I’m so good at performing that the intelligent ones start to wonder if it’s the public act that isn’t real, or the act I’m putting on for them that’s the deception. Once I lose my credibility, I lose _all_ my credibility.”  
  
“You have credibility with me,” Annie assures him. “For one, I’ve known you in person and watched you on camera, and I can see where someone smart could play dumb, but I find it hard to believe that someone stupid could play smart so convincingly.”  
  
“Thank you for that compliment,” Finnick jokes.  
  
Annie smiles indulgently, but continues, “And if I had nothing else to go on, I have the way Mags talks about you. I could see her being fond of you even if you were irresponsible, but I couldn’t see her treating you like a trusted partner. I believe you.”  
  
“All right,” Finnick says with cautious relief, “then you’ve been putting the right pieces together. But I said I didn’t want anyone to hurt you. I also don’t want to be the one hurting you.”  
  
He doesn’t have to spell out the details. It’s not hard to imagine him convincingly portraying her as the girl next door, boring, mad, prone to fits of hysteria, and altogether unsatisfying, and it’s easy to see him doing it in a way that amplifies whatever insecurities she might have. Making her wonder if it’s really true. “Well, you’ll just have to be extra nice to me off camera to make up for it,” Annie informs him.  
  
“I think I can manage that.” Finnick grins. “With or without sex.”  
  
“I’m going to hold you to that,” Annie says lightly. Then there’s this very long pause while both of them decide where to take that opening. “Did you mean it when you said you valued honesty with me the most?”  
  
“I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive. But if I had to choose, then, yes, honesty.”  
  
“I don’t think so either. It’s just that the easiest path from here would be if I offered you a fling to cover your tracks between Capitol visits.”  
  
For the first time in this conversation about extraordinarily difficult topics, Finnick flinches. “Yes, and now I really wish you hadn’t said that. Go back to the honesty.”  
  
“Consider it unsaid,” Annie backtracks hastily, just as glad as he is to unsay it. “It just would have been a shortcut down what would otherwise be a very long and rambly path that I don’t know where it leads.”  
  
“Unscripted sounds good to me,” Finnick says, and he sounds like he means it. Even relieved. Whereas Annie has for some time now been trying to avoid getting into a situation where Finnick has to be patient with her relative lack of experience, she now feels like she’s the one doing him a favor. Especially now that she knows where so much of his experience comes from. “What are you looking for?” he asks, tentatively.  
  
“I’m not sure. If you’ve noticed, I’ve been carefully not flirting.”  
  
He’s noticed, of course.  
  
“I mean, I’m only seventeen, and I’m still barely equipped to do anything beyond having meltdowns. I feel a lot older than that, actually,” she muses.  
  
“Welcome to the Hunger Games,” Finnick says. “We’re all a lot older. And welcome to the club of people underestimating you.”  
  
“Finnick,” she protests, but she doesn’t want to be unreasonably modest, either. “All right. I’m trying to do something besides the meltdowns. But I don’t know whether I’m in any condition to be having flings, much less anything more serious.  
  
“Still, I find there are a few things I can’t get away from. Such as, you’re the first person I’ve been able to talk to about my Games. And you tell me I’m not crazy, or maybe we’re both the same kind of crazy-”  
  
“Well, there’s a bit of that,” Finnick jokes, always ready to laugh at himself. “Remember when I broke down your door half-asleep?”  
  
Annie remembers, and as much as she’s deadly serious, digging around in her deepest feelings to see what she finds there, she can’t help laughing. Finnick’s right, sometimes humor eases the way. “Yes, so, you see, you’re the only one who’s ever going to be crazy enough for me.”  
  
Finnick takes a playful bow. “At your service.”  
  
“And there’s this,” she continues. “I don’t know quite how to put it, but it’s something like reaching out to you when you’ve been startled and you’re trying to convince yourself there’s nothing to attack. It’s like...we’re in this together?”  
  
Annie doesn’t even know if that makes any sense. She’s not sure herself what emotion prompts her to keep wanting to reach out to Finnick, when she’s ruled out the obvious ones, like lust and pity.  
  
Finnick, though, understands. “You know, there's one thing we have going for us now that we’re out of the arena. Whatever demons we have to face, we can both make it out alive this time.”  
  
“We can have a real alliance.” It’s the most reassuring thought Annie has had since she can remember. If anything can convince her that she’s free, it’s this.  
  
This time, she’s the one who takes Finnick’s hands. “I said I don’t want to spend my life in the arena if I can help it. I mean it. I just don’t want you to feel your job is to provide everyone around you with sex on demand.”  
  
"Annie..." Finnick takes a deep breath. "If we both stop hurting for an hour, I won't feel used."  
  
She thinks of herself, watching his Games and dreading the day when she qualified for all the tesserae her aunt was planning to get out of her. Then of Finnick watching her five years later, helpless to do anything.  
  
Annie nods, slowly. They’re still holding hands, and their fingers start to entwine.  
  
_Don’t let go_ , his hands ask.  
  
_I won’t let go_ , hers promise.  
  
  



	3. Cashmere

“I don't understand why they don't let us practice with the other children,” Cashmere comments one day to Gloss. They're sitting on the floor of their bedroom, home for the annual holiday from the academy, and they're juggling together. Whatever objects—pillows, shoes, pencils—come to hand, they send into the swirling circle they've created between them.

“I know!” Gloss agrees. He adds a spool of thread to the mix and tosses it to her. “It's more fun with you. Do the ones who don’t have brothers and sisters in training not see anyone except adults all day?”

“I don’t even think it’s usual for brothers and sisters to be trained together. They were going to separate us when you started, until I-” Cashmere catches herself before she admits to throwing a tantrum. She has to set a good example. “-explained that we would work even harder if we were allowed to practice together.”

_“No one told me! No one told me!”_

_Immediately, one of the teachers knelt down beside her. “Cashmere, you’ve always been a very good girl, and very good girls who do everything they’re told in the program turn into victors. We’re disappointed to see you not cooperating like this.”_

_“I’ll cooperate,” she sobbed, “I’ll do everything, Gloss will do everything, just don’t make me break my promise!”_

_“What promise?”_

_“I promised Mommy and Daddy I would look after him and always be there to help him, I promised!”_

“Really?” Gloss is surprised. “I thought they were just putting me through orientation on the first day, before I joined you. Everyone acted like it was normal.”

Now Cashmere’s wondering if she was supposed to tell him. But it’s too late. She always assumed he knew.

“They said they'll split us up for good if we ever show the smallest sign of goofing off, but that if we keep helping each other learn the skills, we can keep training, eating, and sleeping together. They said because I was so well-behaved the year before you joined, so mature for a five-year-old, they would let us try doing it a different way.”

“Well, it's working,” Gloss observes. “We haven't failed out yet.”

“We still have ten years to go before we're eighteen,” Cashmere reminds him. Maybe Gloss is sure everything is working, but she spends all year nervous that this Reaping Day she's going to fail out.

“Isn't it funny that every Hunger Games, you and I are the same age for a few weeks? Anyway, it's working, and I wish they'd let us train with the other kids.” Gloss lowers his voice to a whisper and looks at his sister. “It's not like home is home any more.”

Cashmere looks around nervously, hoping their parents haven't heard them through the thin walls, but she nods her agreement. It's true. 

She loves, of course, when she comes home and her parents grab her to hug her tight, tell her how proud they are, and exclaim over how much she's grown. But she hasn't seen her family in a year, and after the novelty wears off, she and Gloss kind of wander around aimlessly in the house, with nothing to do beside watch the Games when the television comes on. 

They're supposed to be playing, enjoying their two-week vacation, but the only thing they know how to do is practice their skills, like this juggling act. The only difference is that it's more relaxed, because they know no one's watching them, and they can laugh it off nervously when they drop something.

Back at the academy after the Fiftieth Hunger Games, Cashmere has to concentrate fiercely, even on routine exercises like stretching. They're in a large hall, divided into small compartments by opaque force fields. Cashmere and Gloss share a compartment, but they can't see or hear anything outside it. Trainers stride up and down the hall, stepping inside a compartment from time to time to offer corrections.

Gloss's voice startles her out of her concentration. It takes a minute for Cashmere to realize her brother has asked why they're always so isolated.

Patiently but firmly, the nearest trainer says, “We have a carefully designed system for turning out Careers and victors. Little boys and girls who don’t go along with the program don’t get selected to volunteer. You don’t want that, do you?”

“Look at your sister,” the other trainer in the room adds. Cashmere and Gloss never learn the names of any of the adults who come and go in their lives. They're supposed to treat them all as interchangeable and obey them all with alacrity. “She never argues, and she’s likely to get selected if she keeps up her good behavior.”

“But she-” Gloss starts, but Cashmere’s eyes widen in fright, and he falls silent.

“She what?” the trainer prods.

“Nothing,” Gloss mutters, too loyal to tell on his sister.

“That’s right.” The man puts a period on the discussion. “She’s a good girl, and I know you’re a good boy too.”

Later, when they’re alone together, lying in bed, Cashmere whispers urgently, “You can’t ask questions! They don’t like it.” They officially have separate beds, but they were used to sharing at home. No one objected when Gloss climbed into his sister’s bed for comfort on his first night, so they've continued.

“But what does it hurt?” Gloss whispers back, in frustration. “It’s not like-”

“No talking, more sleeping,” a disembodied voice snaps. The absence of adults in the room is an illusion. They're always being recorded, and a voice can come over the intercom to chide them at any time.

Cashmere just pats her brother's shoulder, reassuring him that it’s okay. She snuggles down under the cover and falls asleep, obedient as always. She’s going to be selected to volunteer, she tells herself every night. She’s not going to go home in shame and be sent to work in the factories, disappointing everyone who’s counting on her.

Despite her resolutions, her year doesn't get off to the best start possible. Her trainers are less than pleased with her speed. She can run for hours without getting tired, but over short distances, even her little brother is faster. And it’s short distances that are so often crucial in the arena.

For her remedial work, they introduce a hologram shaped like a mutt. In different forms, it runs her down. Each time she’s eaten alive, she has to lie down and play dead for half an hour, while Gloss gets to go about his usual tour of stations. 

Knowing that tributes who can’t run die, and fearing that this weakness will disqualify her, Cashmere spends all of her spare time running, until her trainers warn her to stop before she injures herself.

“Give it time. Keep practicing in moderation, and we’ll re-evaluate when your body stops growing in a few years, if you’re still here. You’re only nine.”

Cashmere still worries, but she doesn’t want an injury disqualifying her either. Her teachers know best, she reminds herself.

One day she does approach a trainer outside the track. “You know I want to make my district proud more than anything, right? I’ll do anything it takes to make up for this.”

The woman smiles. “We know you’re a good girl. Keep working and we’ll see what happens.“

None of that assuages the anxiety of not knowing: will this be the year she fails out? Is she scraping through? Will she be kept on but not chosen to volunteer in the end?

The tension eats at her more and more until one day, quite by accident, she overhears one of her trainers saying approvingly, “This girl’s going to get sponsors.”

Cashmere insists to herself that she's not eavesdropping, she's not, but she can't help straining to hear more. She's not supposed to know how she's doing compared to the other students. She sort of knows where she's better than Gloss or Gloss her, but boys and girls aren't in direct competition, so it doesn't really count. The boys often come out better athletes, taller, stronger, and faster, but the girls win just as often.

“She's a natural,” is all she can make out, before the adults move out of range and background noise overwhelms them.

It's so good to hear. It's true that seduction and bedsport are one area where Cashmere has been consistently outperforming her brother, and that's how you get sponsors. He's constantly being corrected on his performance, and struggling in frustration to master the art of pleasing a woman in bed, whereas Cashmere is sailing effortlessly through.

It's one of the lessons she likes: the praise, the petting, and the smiles, even more than the dressing up and putting on makeup. The reactions from her trainers are fake, of course, just a simulation of a real-life sexual encounter, so she'll be prepared to know when she's doing a good job someday and when she needs to change tack. But it's the only praise she gets for anything other than unquestioning obedience, and she drinks it in like a flower leaning toward the sun.

“I'll help you,” Cashmere mouths, when Gloss comes out of one of his sessions discouraged and shaking his head at her. They're not allowed to talk about anything except the task at hand, but they have ways of communicating, and helping each other is the only reason they're allowed to train together. That it helps with the loneliness is not something either admits.

They're not allowed to talk in bed, either, but the intercom is silent that night when Cashmere starts whispering advice to Gloss on where to put what on her body, how to take his time, and how to tell when he's doing it right. With the extra help she's giving him, his mastery of bedsports starts to improve.

“You’ll get lots of sponsors,” she tells him happily, as proud of his performances as she is of her own. She’s always felt that his successes reflect on her, as the big sister.

They learn a few basic survival skills, like swimming and starting a fire, but most of the training is given to weapons. The day Cashmere graduates from a wooden sword to a metal blade is the proudest of her life. She can handle any weapon you put in her hand, but her trainers favor a sword, so that’s what she develops the most skill with.

On the night before Reaping Day, Cashmere reviews her year. Sponsors, plus. Sprinting, minus. Weapons—she doesn't struggle, but she has to work hard, and she has no idea if there's another girl her age surpassing her with ease. Her other athletics tasks tell a similar story. She can lift weights up to a point, but she doesn't know if that's a high point or a low point. She just knows it's not bad enough to get her the extra assignments that her sprinting does.

So when the morning comes, she rises with bloodshot eyes and shakes Gloss awake. “Come on. We have to get ready for the Reaping.”

Eager for the meal awaiting for them, Cashmere and Gloss hurry down to the great hall where all the trainees and all the adults who help mind and train the children gather to watch the televised Reaping. As always, the hall is pandemonium. There’s a pyramid of ages, as almost any child with athletic promise is selected at the age of about five—or older if they’re a late bloomer—and they’re progressively weeded out. So the small children predominate.

This is the only license the children are permitted during a year of strict discipline, and the only time they're allowed to meet each other. They run wild, jumping and yelling and hitting and crying and laughing and playing impromptu games.

The adults have to herd the children into their seats to watch the Reaping. Peacekeepers stand at the ready, because no matter who’s reaped, everyone knows the tributes will come from this room. There’s even been talk of moving the live Reaping here, stymied only by the fact that this entire academy is technically against the rules.

The Reaping itself is almost boring for Cashmere, who knows she’s not going in, nor anyone she knows. She can hardly pay attention for obsessing about about what comes after. She’ll be in disgrace if she’s sent home, and she’ll be no less distressed if Gloss is.

They’re sitting apart, him with the boys, and her with the girls. She’s a little shy around the other children, because she doesn’t know how to talk to them, but she and another girl have already smiled tentatively at each other, exchanged names, and started whispering together until they’re hushed for the anthem.

After the cameras are turned off, and the Peacekeepers have escorted the volunteers away, the mentors return to business. Marcella, victor of the Thirty-Eighth Hunger Games, and Resin, Fortieth victor, march to the front of the hall.

“The academy, which all of you were honored to be selected to attend, does not only allow District One to put a trained eighteen-year-old into the arena, unlike the frightened twelve-year-olds from the poorer districts. It brings great glory to our district, and resources. We victors use our winnings to give back to the district that gave us so much. Additionally, every month after we bring home a victor, the Capitol delivers extra food to the district. Confident that we can produce a volunteer, hungry families can take tesserae without risk, unlike in poorer districts where each parent must agonize over the dilemma of present starvation or future reaping.

“The following ungrateful students, have failed to repay the debt owed their district, by being disobedient to their trainers or unwilling to train hard enough to meet the high standards of this academy. Having failed their families, their trainers, and their districts, they will be sent home to work in the factories with other children who were not selected for this honor.”

With those words, Marcella and Resin begin their own reaping, her calling the girls' names and him the boys'. Each student who's called has to rise from his or her seat, and leave the hall in disgrace, never to return.

“Delphine, insufficient dedication.”

“Beau, disobedience.”

“Spark, disobedience.”

“Violet, insufficient dedication.”

“Tully, insufficient dedication.”

On and on the list of names goes.

Cashmere sits with her hands twisted in her lap. She trembles with relief when Marcella and Resin finish and her name has still not been called, nor her brother's. They're still in the running.

“We hope that these students will be an example to the remainder of you to work hard and follow the program.”

After the culling, the remaining students open the feast with a food fight, and the trainers permit it, even when they’re wiping jam out of their hair. They remember their own days at the academy. This is a long-standing tradition, marking the beginning of the holidays.

Another year has passed.

Cashmere keeps her head down, follows the rules, sets a good example for her brother, and trains as hard as she can. The stress is the same every year, the relief the same when the Reaping comes and goes, and nothing changes.

Until one day it does.

He's just turned fourteen, she's just about to turn fifteen, and they enter the academy together, hand in hand, like always. They're greeted by victors this time, people whose names they actually know. Marcella and Leo. Marcella smiles at Cashmere, who smiles back nervously. This must be a sign of graduating to the next level, getting personal attention from the victors.

She's following Marcella to her first lesson, when she hears Gloss gasp. She turns to look at him, and they have time to exchange one panicked look before they're shunted into different compartments.

Only years of discipline give Cashmere the strength to bite back her “But-!” and double down at the lesson. Whatever she or Gloss did that got them separated, she can't make it worse now.

Despite the painful day of hope that it's only lessons that are separate, she finds herself alone at night as well. The last time she slept alone was ten years ago. Cashmere hopes she's hiding her tears in the pillow better than she did then.

After a month, Cashmere dares to approach Marcella during wrestling. She's rehearsed at night, and she pretends it's an interview, to keep her voice steady and eager to please. “If you tell me what it was I did, I promise I'll do better. I promise I didn't know I was doing anything wrong.”

“We have a carefully designed system to turn out Careers and victors,” Marcella recites unemotionally. “You don't get to argue, or bargain.”

“I'm sorry!” Cashmere exclaims instantly, sick with panic. All she can do now is try to stay in the program. She feels like she's hanging onto the edge of a cliff with her fingernails.

She's more shocked than ever when she and Gloss are still in the running after the culling. They find each other after the ceremony and cling like they're five again on the train home.

“Did they tell you?” Gloss demands.

“They didn't tell me anything. Not that they were going to separate us, not why they separated us. Not if it's going to be the same next year.”

“They never tell us anything,” Gloss mutters. Towns and trees go hurtling by outside the window. In a way, they haven't seen each other in a year, so there should be lots to tell. In another, not much has changed since last year. _I trained, I worked hard, I have no idea how I'm performing._

It's just good to be with someone who understands without needing to say a word.

After a while, Gloss turns to face her fully. He narrows his eyes. “You look different.”

“Oh.” Cashmere takes her attention off the view out the window. “That's right. I had surgery earlier this year. They tweaked a bunch of things, and made my breasts smaller so I could maneuver better.”

“Hm. That won't hurt your chances with sponsors?”

“They said no,” Cashmere tells him. “I have the skill: dressing, seduction, tricks in bed, everything. The sponsors know we're trained. No surgery for you?”

Gloss shakes his head. “Lots of pills and injections, though.”

Cashmere's been taking pills since her body started changing a few years ago. She doesn't know what they're for either, but since she's tall, strong, and healthy, she assumes it's a less intrusive way of molding her body than surgery.

Still later, Gloss breaks the silence again, very, very tentatively. “You know...in three years...we're both going to be eighteen. You don't think...they're separating us so they can send us in together?”

The thorny problem of their ages is one that Cashmere has been fiercely ignoring. She considered it so unlikely that both of them were going to make it to selection. But now, only three years away, it's getting harder to ignore.

“No, they won’t.” Cashmere shakes her head vehemently. “They don’t want to handicap us.”

“I don’t think they care about us. Look, the female tributes are called first. Volunteer if they tell you to, but if you do, I won’t.”

Cashmere looks at him in fearful awe. “What do they do to you if you don’t volunteer when you’ve been selected?”

Gloss shrugs, but Cashmere can see that he’s full of bravado. Neither of them has ever seen it happen. “I don’t care what they do. It couldn’t be worse.”

“Well, anyway,” she insists, “it’s not going to come to that.” All she can do is play the reassuring older sister, trying to quell her own fears. But now at last she has her answer to why they’re not allowed to form bonds with the other trainees. She shivers inwardly. They won’t send her and Gloss in at the same time, they won't...will they?

This conversation is still on her mind the day of the Reaping for the Fifty-Ninth Hunger Games. She’s a month shy of her eighteenth birthday. She’ll still qualify next year, but it will be her last year, as well as Gloss’s. There are only a few possible outcomes. Gloss has been selected to volunteer this year, and Cashmere's still in the running for next year. One of them will be sent in next year, while the other fails out. Both will fail out. Both will be sent into the arena next year, at eighteen.

When she’s escorted into the hall, Cashmere looks around frantically for her brother. The place is a madhouse. Small children running everywhere, followed by dozens of trainers trying to keep them under a semblance of control. Awkward teenagers checking out the sex they're interested in and trying on their flirtation skills with someone their own age. Only a few seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds, like herself, mostly nervous. The majority of the children who entered with her have been weeded out by now.

She finally catches sight of Gloss on the boys’ side, but he’s looking and looking through all the wrong parts of the crowd of women. She doesn’t dare wave, not with Marcella breathing down her neck.

She’s slow to take her seat, though, under the pretense of helping herd the younger ones. Just as she’s one of the last tall women to sit, Gloss spots her. He shakes his head, and she shakes hers, and that’s all before they have to take their positions. Neither of them is going in this year, then.

Conversation is starting to die down, in preparation for the Reaping, when Marcella sitting behind her, nudges her. “Cashmere. Volunteer.” She speaks under her breath, so that only Cashmere hears her.

Cashmere’s jaw drops, and her mind goes blank. _It’s a joke_ , she thinks, _it’s a trick. She didn’t really say that, I just heard it because it’s been on my mind._

“We decided,” Marcella continues. “You’re ready.”

Stunned, she can barely muster a “Whaaat?”

“We don’t tell you until Reaping Day, or you won’t sleep the night before. Volunteer.”

Through the rushing of blood in her ears, Cashmere misses the anthem, and the highlights of previous victories, and almost the Reaping itself. She’s only dimly aware that the tribute reaped is not from this crowd, and she watches the girl on screen walking to the stage.

Then, when they call for someone to take her place, Cashmere finds herself on her feet.

“I volunteer as tribute.”

She knows Gloss is watching her when she stands up on the stage, but she can’t find him again in the crowd. The faces are a blur. All she knows is that the male tribute will be called next.

Then there’s a volunteer, and his voice is unfamiliar, and when he stands up, his face is unfamiliar. Cashmere almost faints in relief. She doesn’t know what happened, if Gloss refused and he’s in trouble, but he was right. Nothing could be worse than facing each other.

Her parents come to see her off, and she gets three minutes of hugging and gushing about how proud she’s made them.

“We’ve been hearing reports of your progress-”

“-everyone so pleased with you-”

“-such a good girl-”

“-wonderful example for your brother-”

“Have you heard from him?” Cashmere interrupts. “Was he selected to volunteer?”

“No, how could he be?” her mother says. “You saw.”

“Silly girl.” Her father chucks her affectionately under the chin. “He’ll go next year, if he keeps working hard. You didn’t see him volunteering, did you?”

Cashmere doesn’t say anything, certainly not that Gloss had offered to refuse. She won’t shame him in front of everyone. Maybe they’re right, and she’s just being silly to think anyone would put her and her brother in the arena at the same time. She doesn’t know how to explain a certain feeling of ruthlessness she always picks up on from her mentors, so she just reminds herself that she’s little more than a child, with no idea how the world works. All her fears are groundless, and everyone would laugh at her if they knew.

She waits in the tiny room, wondering if they’ll let Gloss come or not. He bursts in the door just as she’s given up, and she throws herself at him, hugging him tight, almost as fast as he throws himself at her.

“I thought you weren’t going-”

“They didn’t tell me until the last second.”

That rocks Gloss. “So I’ll go next year.”

“I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“If they let you visit me at the academy,” he reminds her.

“They have to!” Cashmere cries. Then she remembers. “I’ll be a mentor, I’ll be there.”

“Don’t think about that,” Gloss says, shaking her gently by the shoulders. “Don’t think about anything else. Just do what you have to do and come back.”

“Time!”

They’re wrenched apart by the Peacekeepers, and Gloss is dragged away, calling, “Don’t die on me!” 

The door slams shut behind him, and Cashmere is alone.

On the train, the dining compartment is packed with victors. The academy is shut down so that everyone can go to the Games. There will be a brief break for the Victory Tour in a few months, but the students will only be given a handful of half days at the academy, not sent home.

Cashmere hesitates by the door, watching the crowd and waiting for instruction, until Marcella spots her and waves her over. “I’ll be taking care of you before you go into the arena.”

She’s glad that her mentor will be someone she’s familiar with. The older Cashmere has gotten, the more personal attention she's received from the victors. The adults who train and mind the younger children are the ones who attended the academy but didn't make it to the Hunger Games.

Cashmere comes to sit close beside Marcella, seeking moral support.

Marcella pats her shoulder encouragingly. “We had our eye on you from the beginning. You never complained, worked hard at every task you were set, and were so devoted to your district that we were always optimistic about your prospects.”

After years of not knowing how she was measuring up, except that she was one of the few seventeen-year-olds left, the praise has Cashmere’s mind whirling. She’s still absorbing the idea that her time has come and she’s been deemed worthy.

The male tribute comes in. Cashmere smiles at him politely, but they have little to say to each other. They’ll both be in the Career pack, no need to discuss it.

Their mentors make them sign a form dedicating a percentage of their winnings to the academy. Cashmere can see two lines with her mother's and father's signatures, dated thirteen years ago. “Parents have to sign this form if they want their children accepted into the academy,” Marcella explains. “Now it's your turn to sign, so you can't turn around and say you didn't know when you win.”

Cashmere signs, more bemused by the fact that someone is bothering to explain something to her than by the fact that she's being asked to give up some of her winnings. Her district needs her victory, she knows that. They could have just put the paper in front of her.

She catches the boy craning his neck, trying to read her form. He blushes when he sees her notice. “I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.” He smiles, laughing it off.

“Cashmere.” _He was as nervous as I was!_ Cashmere's relief is palpable. She thought it was just her, unable to concentrate during the Reaping.

“Dapper.”

_I can't be friends with you, though. This is why we have to train alone at the academy._

In the washroom on the train, she sees that her monthly bleeding has just finished tapering off. In a flash, Cashmere, who never paid attention before except to resent when the symptoms interfered with her training, suspects that at least one of her pills is to control the timing so that she has no blood and no symptoms when she goes into the arena.

She's in good hands, she reminds herself. Her mentors will take care of everything, even things she'd never have thought of.

Her trust receives more validation when she arrives at the Capitol, where she's in for another surprise. She always knew a number of sponsors are interested in the training in bedsport that the Careers receive, and that this gives them an incentive to see that a tribute from District One wins. What she didn’t know is that though the Games haven’t even started, the sponsors are already lined up to get a taste of the wares. 

Marcella sits her down to go over the expectations. Only the very wealthiest are smuggled into the Hunger Games facilities after nightfall, she explains.

“Now, there’s nothing to be nervous about. You’ve trained for this as much as for the fighting. You know what to do, just give them whatever they want, and make it clear that if they’re very generous in helping you survive the arena, you’ll be available and grateful afterward. Dapper will be doing the same in the suite next door.” She looks closely at Cashmere. “Okay? No qualms?”

Cashmere shakes her head. It's the one area where she's always had confidence.

“What a good girl. We’ll be watching through the cameras to make sure you’re not damaged in any way. No tribute’s ever been harmed by a sponsor before going into the arena.”

And after? Cashmere wants to ask, but she knows better.

“Now, obviously, we don’t talk about this with anyone, got it?” Marcella winks. “We don’t want the other districts getting any ideas.”

Cashmere nods. This is District One’s biggest advantage, and the only reason they can compete with District Two in terms of number of victors.

Marcella hugs her, and Cashmere clings for a minute before Marcella stands up and dusts her hands briskly together. “That’s settled, then. I’ll bring the first one in at midnight. Your stylists will be there two hours before to have you ready.”

After lunch, she meets the other Careers in the training room. The traditional pack forms without much discussion: Cashmere and Dapper with Nero and Flint from District Two, and Tessa from Four. The boy was reaped, and though he wants to join the pack, Tessa takes one look at him and scornfully refuses.

“Four is soft on their Careers,” Nero explains, when Tessa's out of hearing. “Don’t turn your backs on them once they’re in the pack, though. Their last two victors got their own partners.”

They all shiver deliciously. “There are no penalties for refusing if you’re selected in Four, then?” Dapper asks. He and Cashmere share an uneasy look, both thinking the same thing. They had no idea what their own penalties would have been. She wanted to be chosen more than anything, but she’s glad Gloss wasn’t put in the position of having to refuse.

“Selected?” Flint wonders. Confusion creases her brow. “Oh, you guys sort it all out amongst yourselves before Reaping Day?”

Nero laughs. “That’s too tame for us. We like to have a good wrangle after the name is drawn. It makes things more exciting.”

Cashmere has nothing to contribute. She feels stupid, not knowing how the mentors make the decision in One, much less how things work in other districts. Instinctively, she catches herself glancing over her shoulder for the nearest adult to tell them to stop gossiping and get to work.

“Should we be...?” she hazards, looking around at the training room.

“Oh, very well,” Flint says casually. “Let’s see what you've got.”

Cashmere turns out to be the strongest of the three girls at the weight-lifting station, which settles her nerves enough to focus on weapons when they move on. District Two is taking the lead, and she’s happy to let them. She feels like she’s completely out of her depth. Not in athletic competition, where she’s holding her own, but in interacting with the others. She catches herself hovering close to Dapper, out of some intuition that he’s similarly out of his depth.

Marcella grabs her on her way to dinner. “Don’t throw any knives in training.”

Cashmere is taken aback. “Okay?”

“That’s usually the specialty of the girls in Two. I saw Flint, and I think you’re at least as good as she is. Show them anything else, but not that.”

Cashmere nods, wishing she’d been told this in advance. She would have screwed up again if they hadn’t run out of time.

“Anyway, we’ll be giving you something light but filling to eat. You have to perform tonight, and you’ll need all your stamina. We’ll call them off at four and make you get some sleep. You can eat at noon and go down to the training room after that.”

Receiving the sponsors is easier than forming the Career pack. These interactions are scripted, and she knows what to do. Not line-by-line, of course, but she has some stock sayings to flatter her lover and keep him happy.

The only one who unnerves her keeps comparing her to the previous tributes he’s sampled. Almost all are dead, and pleasing him didn’t keep them alive. Pasting a bright smile on her face, Cashmere redoubles her efforts.

Aside from the creepy one, the sponsors lavish compliments on Cashmere, and she's happy to please them, happy they're pleased with her.

Marcella is pleased too. They're sitting together, waiting for the scores to be announced, when Cashmere gets her first confirmation that her nights have been going well. “I’m not too worried about the scores,” Marcella says, relaxed. “A good score is always nice to have, but the important thing is that the sponsors are happy with you. Word is getting around to even the less wealthy who haven’t met you in person yet. Last night was their last chance—tonight you’ll just get a good night’s sleep before you have your interview tomorrow, then go into the arena the next day. I won’t say anything about Dapper, but I’m not worried about you.”

Even so, Cashmere almost cries in relief when she gets a ten. Everything depends, of course, on what the others got, but at least it’s respectable no matter what.

Only Nero ties with her.

When the last tribute flashes by on the screen, Marcella hugs her. Cashmere hugs back tightly, and then she’s crying on her mentor’s shoulder.

“You’re going to be fine, you’re going to do great, hang in there, don’t lose focus, you know what to do...” The words run into each other, until all Cashmere hears is the encouraging tone.

It’s the first thing she hears when she wakes up and looks around to find herself in a hospital bed. “That’s my girl, come on. That’s right, wake up. You did great. You’re going to be all right.”

Slowly, it starts to come back to her: hunting with the pack, fighting mutts, taking Tessa, and a blur of metal before her eyes.

“Flint got you with a knife,” Marcella reminds her, “but only in the shoulder. You bled a lot, but she missed the throat. You were the last one breathing, even after you passed out from blood loss.”

Cashmere’s weak, but she’s got her shoulder numbed and strapped, so she’s not in too much discomfort. This ends up being a good thing, because the sponsors are eager.

“I told you you did a great job with them,” Marcella exults. “All that water and water purifier they paid for saved your life. Water was _expensive_ this year. And every sponsor you impress is one more to save the lives of our future tributes.”

Cashmere smiles faintly. Drained, she finds it hard to muster up the energy to care about anything, but praise always has a soothing feel.

“We can give you a little more time to recover, but not long. You’ll be required to give your interview soon, and the sponsors will know you’re awake.”

She understands. “I don’t want to disappoint,” she assures her mentor. Her district’s policies guided her to victory, and she has to do her part.

“That’s my girl,” Marcella says again. “Maybe you can entertain just one tonight? We’ll tell them you’re still weak and tired, maybe find one who likes that sort of thing.”

Cashmere nods, and her eyes fall shut again. When she wakes again, it’s to find her stylists fussing over her.

“Attractively pale is one thing, but she looks anemic, especially with her face burned so dark.”

“She is anemic. It’ll show even if we put her in the tanning booth.”

“Put her in something black so it looks like the product of contrast?”

“Put her in something colorful to draw attention away from her?”

In the end, they settle on a bright blue gown, plus tiny, almost invisible, sparkles sprinkled on her skin. “You’ll shimmer even when the dress comes off,” Marcella tells her.

They don’t make her practice walking in it, trusting her training, and she saves her energy for that sashaying walk onto the stage. She’s given an energy booster to drink before her interview. “But none after,” she’s told firmly. “At close range in bed, it’ll be too noticeable.”

Cashmere wins over the audience with the lines she’s been coached in. When President Snow crowns her the victor of the Fifty-Ninth Hunger Games, he bestows on her a fatherly smile. Radiant with joy and pride, Cashmere thinks she'll never be happier.

She watches the replay with curiosity. Parts were a blur, and parts she wasn't even there for, though of course the highlights focus on her. They were put in a desert, she remembers that, and there was no water, not even in the Cornucopia. Realizing the situation, the District Ten tributes offered themselves as allies to the Career pack. Reluctantly, Nero and Flint agreed. None of the Careers, trained in an academy, had any idea where to find water in the wild. Tessa only knew about salt water.

Cashmere had a steady stream of water supplies from the beginning. The rule among the pack quickly became one of no sharing. 

She kept her face carefully blank when Dapper silently begged her for a taste of hers. Everyone in the pack got some water in the first two days, and Dapper drank eagerly at first. When he realized no more was forthcoming, he began frantically rationing. He died with water still in his canteen.

Nero rushed on the first body of underground water they found, and died raving an hour later. Not, of course, before taking out the boy who'd led them to this contaminated water. The girl stared down the rest of the pack. “We didn't say it was ready to drink.”

They let her live. For a while.

Tessa, starting to feel the effects of dizziness, lost control and attacked Cashmere. Flint looked on, amused, while Cashmere killed her. Flint had control of the fresh water supply, once Cashmere's tablets went in. Cashmere didn't fight her for it. Parachutes were dropping regularly from the sky with her name on them.

In the end, when the pack was done hunting, it came down to Flint, Cashmere, and Clover, the girl from Ten. 

Cashmere waited until Flint was distracted taking out Clover and threw a knife. Cursing and snarling, Flint threw a knife in return. Cashmere's last memory is of barely having the strength to lift a sword and bear it into Flint's side, before collapsing.

Caesar asks her if she has any advice for her brother. “It's harder than you think,” Cashmere says, looking into the camera and speaking straight to him, “but you can do it.”

An hour after her interview, she does her best with her sponsor. Marcella's already explained her current deficiencies to him, and she’s been told that all she needs to do is lie still on her back and spread her legs. She’s been drugged against any pain this might cause her shoulder, and the energy drink has worn off, so she’s pretty drowsy, but she gives him her best smile. “I hope we get another chance when I can show you everything I have.”

“Oh, doll, you’re going to be stunning for your Victory Ball. Make sure I get the last dance.”

She promises, but he’s too excited for more words, so the conversation ends there. She considers this a good sign.

Marcella reports the next day that he was pleased, and Cashmere breathes a tiny sigh of relief. One more person she hasn’t disappointed. It becomes a way of life, having sex with anyone her mentor escorts to her suite, and knowing that she’s doing what’s expected of her. Surrounded by admirers, bombarded by fans, and courted by men, she drifts from interview to party, and from bed to bed, enjoying her media blitz in a state of mindless bliss. Maybe it's the anemia, or the shock of being out of the arena, but everything has a sense of pleasant unreality.

On the train home, a uniformed Peacekeeper catches her in the hallway. “Hey, gorgeous. Heard you were an eager volunteer in more than just the Games.”

Cashmere beams at him, reassured that she’s wanted even outside the strictly guided routine she’s used to. She’s even feeling somewhat better, though the gentle swaying of the train makes her wobbly on her feet.

He takes her up against the side of the nearest compartment, and she’s grateful for the steadying body against hers. All is going well, until her shoulder takes a hit against the wall behind her. Tears spring involuntarily to her eyes.

It angers him. “What? Now you’re crying? You’re going to pretend you didn’t want this, like you didn’t come here looking for it-”

“No, no,” Cashmere babbles through the tears, “I do, I promise, it’s wonderful, you’re wonderful...it’s just my shoulder—it was injured, you know-” _Please like me. Please don’t be disappointed._

At last, her words penetrate his anger. He narrows his eyes, but he lightens his hold on her. “All right. Just your shoulder?”

Cashmere nods vigorously.

“You’re not going to run and start telling everyone lies?”

She shakes her head just as hard. Accepting that, he continues.

After he’s finished adjusting his uniform back in place, he makes to leave. “Be careful with that shoulder. You’re going to send a lot of people the wrong message.”

“I’m sorry for ruining the mood.”

He chuckles, appeased. “You really are something.” He claps his hand on her uninjured arm, and sets off back down the hall like nothing happened.

She breathes a sigh of relief at the narrow escape, but she knows she needs to work harder at getting these encounters right. Fortunately, after her victory, there is no shortage of interested men. She throws herself gratefully at every invitation, welcoming the company and the validation that she's desirable.

Being a victor is lonelier than she expected. She doesn’t get to see Gloss after all at the academy. “You don’t start as a mentor until next year,” she’s told. “Enjoy your year off before we start putting you to work.”

 _No one told me!_ she wants to cry. But she’s not five years old any more, so she holds her silence.

She knows no one else, other than the people affiliated with the Games, and her family. Everyone gushes, of course, but no one knows her, except Gloss, and he’s immersed in training. She’s more and more certain that they’re going to pick him. Why else deny her the final year of training she could have had? But there’s no one she can ask. Every time she catches herself missing him, though, she reminds herself to be grateful. The trainers have her best interests in mind, and Gloss’s. They made sure not to send her and Gloss in at the same time, and they’re giving him the best training possible now. She shouldn’t begrudge him his total immersion, just because she’s lonely.

Her company, of course, is much sought after, but she’s as quivery as a startled deer around strangers. She can’t let them see how much of a loss she is at questions they obviously consider easy, like “What's do you like doing in your spare time?” They talk about school, sleepovers, work in the factories, and all sorts of shared experiences that she can’t even begin to comprehend. 

The one conversational skill she has, though, is deflecting questions she can’t answer. It was part of her interview training. Everyone loves her when she turns the conversation back to them and pretends a deep interest in what they have to say, even when she doesn’t understand it at all, but it leaves her surrounded by a shell that no one can penetrate.

The Victors' Village is the only place where anyone understands, and it's mostly empty, with everyone at the academy. Though only one month a year of volunteering at the academy is specified in the contract all the tributes sign, most victors choose to give more. 

Cashmere understands immediately why. It's what they know how to do. With the utter freedom of a Hunger Games victor, she has no idea how to fill her days.

No one has any advice for her. “Do whatever you want!” is not helpful. She finds herself counting down until next year. Then she’ll be given something to do at the academy and have structure again.

Only after months pass does she make her one real friend. Penelope is a victor, but no one talks about her. Curious and lonely, Cashmere goes to meet her. And she keeps coming back.

Eating is what Penelope does in her spare time. Fat almost to the point of immobility, she never leaves the house. Cashmere has heard of victors like this from all the districts. After the hardships of the arena, or the rigors of training, they repay themselves for their sufferings by swinging to the opposite extreme.

Other people may see Penelope as a disgrace, a former athlete gone to seed, but Cashmere doesn't mind at all that she's large and soft. She gives the best hugs in the world. And she always has a warm welcome for Cashmere.

“No one else comes to visit me,” Penelope remarks, holding out her arms. She has only the people she pays to clean her house and make her food.

“I don't understand why not,” Cashmere wonders, coming for her first hug of the day. This is where her quiveriness settles down. “You're kindness itself.”

“You're a sweet girl.” Penelope pats Cashmere's hand. Her skin is as dark as Cashmere's is milk-white. Cashmere always smiles to see the contrast. It's like they're filling gaps in each other's lives. Cashmere needs the warmth, and Penelope needs the connection to the outside world.

After Cashmere has finished telling her all the latest news and rumors, she curls up with a pillow on the couch, ready to confide in the one person she can talk to about what's on her mind.

“Did you ever volunteer at the academy? What's it like?” Though it's the only place she can imagine feeling comfortable, Cashmere is getting nervous as the time grows near. She has no idea what's expected of her as a mentor.

Penelope sighs. “It was more than I could deal with. They let me out of it eventually, when they saw I was only going to set a bad example.”

Cashmere nods, thinking she understands. “You wanted to let go and take it easy now that you were done?”

“No...” Penelope says slowly. “I wanted to give back to my district. And they don't control every aspect of your life like they do when you're on the other side of the training. But there are so many rules about the kids, everything not compulsory is forbidden, and you have to kick most of them out...I just started to feel more and more sick. I sleep better now. I'm not hurting anyone here, and no one is hurting me.”

“They weren't making you do anything that wasn't done when you were a kid, were they?”

Penelope looks sad. “You know, I made it through training myself. But knowing what it was like, I couldn't handle inflicting that on anyone else.”

“But it's for their own good,” Cashmere protests, confused. “It's how you survived. It's how I survived.”

“Maybe you'll be one of the lucky ones,” is all Penelope says.

When Cashmere's regular visits to Penelope hit the rumor mill, though, Cashmere finds herself shamed out of continuing them. Maybe she's not supposed to be associating with this woman. Maybe Penelope's in trouble because she doesn't do her part at the academy. So Cashmere's days again empty of the only comfort they held.

When her Victory Tour comes, she’s back in her element. The speeches are scripted line by line, and the interactions at the Capitol are meant to be superficial. Meaningless flirtation she can do without thinking about it.

Here everyone wants her, the latest victor and the best-looking, as each one hastens to assure her. She makes her earlier deficiencies up to her sponsors, and anyone else who comes along and pulls her into their arms gets to keep her until they tire of her, and then the cycle begins again. The stream of potential lovers is never-ending, and Cashmere wishes the Victory Tour were similarly never-ending.

On the last night, President Snow pays her a call, to congratulate her, Marcella says. “This is quite a coup,” Marcella flutters, leading Cashmere in. “Only the most outstanding victors get a visit from the President in person.”

“I hear you’ve been enjoying your time in the Capitol,” the President opens.

“Yes, sir,” Cashmere agrees. “It’s lovely, and the people are lovely.”

“As you would know, I’m sure. You must have seen the entire male population at, shall we say, close range by now.”

Cashmere nods. “As expected of me, sir.”

“Yes,” he muses, “District One entices sponsors with sex, doesn’t it? They did teach you to fake enthusiasm in bed, I assume.”

“Of course, sir,” Cashmere agrees. “I was always lucky, though: they told me I was a natural. I liked it.”

“Mmm.” President Snow nods to himself. “Tell me, do you also enjoy killing children? Do you do it for fun in your spare time?”

Cashmere is horrified. “Of course not!”

“‘Of course not,’ she says,” the President mimics. “And yet when everyone else is learning to kill and seduce for the glory of their district and the well-being of Panem, we find you in bed for your own pleasure.”

Cashmere’s worldview shifts. She thought all the victors were sailing gaily around the Capitol, having their public affairs, enjoying sex. But now she understands. _They’re all faking it. Just like I’m supposed to be faking it._

She shrinks down even smaller inside, pelting herself with words like stones. _Dirty. Filthy. Contaminated. Despicable._

The President continues, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “Oh, well, I don’t suppose we can stop you from being so eager. I simply wished to find out if we should be on the lookout for any small children turning up dead.”

Tears fill Cashmere's eyes. “Sir-I-I don't pretend to understand how these things work, but I thought we were supposed to have sex with our sponsors. I haven't turned anyone down that-” She hesitates, now unsure if she's betraying Marcella by mentioning her name. “-that I was told to please.”

“Sponsors, yes, but, my dear child,” President Snow explains patiently, “if you give yourself to everyone who isn’t a sponsor, what incentive do the sponsors have to keep giving money to tributes? In other words, why pay for what they can get for free?”

She stares at the President, stricken.

“If it were only you, we would leave you to cheapen yourself if you wish, but you’re endangering every tribute from your district.” He looks disappointed.

“I-I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t know.”

“No doubt,” President Snow agrees. “No one expects District One tributes to win on the strength of their brains. Though I must say, I’m afraid I’ve never had to explain this to anyone else. Everyone else seems to have found it obvious.”

Shame washes over Cashmere. She’s ruined everything, being stupid, weak, and easy to get. “What can I do?”

“I’m glad you asked,” President Snow says, benevolent in his disappointment. “I know you want to do everything possible to make up for your...permanently spread legs.”

Cashmere nods eagerly.

“Well, then. I'm told you're a good girl, if somewhat less than bright. If you're so determined to distribute your favors, you can have some pride and demand a price. I will set the price and the recipients in a list every year when you come to the Capitol. In this way, you can begin to undo the damage you have done to the carefully arranged system between your district and the sponsors of the Capitol. You understand?”

She does.

“And, in return, if you satisfy my requirements, your little peccadilloes will remain a secret. You wouldn’t, for instance, want your brother to know you were endangering him. Or everyone you meet to think _slut_ when they see you? No? I didn’t think so. Then we have a deal?”

“Yes, sir. I won’t disappoint you again. Or my district.”

President Snow’s smile is as cold as his name, but at least she’s out of danger. It’s hard to believe she could have gotten this so wrong, even with mentors telling her what to do, but she’s going to get it right this time.


	4. Johanna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been significantly rewritten since the fic was originally posted in 2015. If you read it before June 10, 2017, you'll want to reread.

The front door slams. 

“Johanna, you're covered in mud, can you please not track-” 

“Dad,” Johanna interrupts, “they worked us overtime today because tomorrow's Reaping Day; somebody's pole broke— _not_ mine, because I take care of my tools—at the worst possible point and caused a jam that slowed everything down; and we kept having to chop up ice on the river. I thought we were going to have to spend the night on the banks, but they finally let us go.” Maybe because there'd be riots if the men with children couldn't spend tonight with their families. 

She strips down to nothing. Her clothes land wherever she drops them on the ground. At least he's started a fire, if he's done nothing else all day. 

“It's barely autumn,” her father observes mildly from his chair. 

Johanna grabs the blanket he passes her and wraps it around her naked, shivering body. She usually changes into dry clothing at this point, but she's relishing a few free minutes in front of the fire without having to move. Every muscle she has hurts, and even though they fed her on the drive, she's still hungry. 

“If you ever left the house, you'd have noticed the cold spell this week. I'm half fucking froze.” She's going to have to do laundry tonight so she has something clean to wear tomorrow, though neat is probably a lost cause. The life of a log driver isn't exactly easy on clothing. 

“Johanna-” 

“I'm the breadwinner of this house, and I'll use whatever fucking language I want.” 

“What would your grandmother say?” her father sighs, but he's resigned. 

“Gran's dead, Dad,” Johanna says tonelessly. “It's just us.” 

He says nothing. He never has much energy for wrangling with his daughter. Since he quit working, he sits in his chair, watches her comings and goings, listens to her talk about her day, and lives in the whirlwind of her plans and activities. Johanna's determined not to become like him, one more ghost in this house of ghosts. 

“I washed your clothes,” he says, changing the subject. 

“Did you? Thanks.” It's all she says, but sitting on the floor at his feet, as close to the fire as she can stand, she leans back, and he puts his hand on her cropped hair. She knows he likes it longer, but she's the only woman on her team. Over time, she's forced her co-workers to accept her as one of the guys, and she's fighting tooth and nail to hang on to that acceptance. 

“You've got a lot of tesserae in the bowl,” he reminds her, as if she could forget. The years after Gran died were hungry ones.

“I know, but it's my last year, and then we're home free.” 

“'Home free.' What's the life expectancy of a log driver?” he wonders pessimistically. 

“What's the life expectancy of anyone in this district? If your name's in the bowl as many times as mine, you probably don't have two parents living, or capable of working. Anyway, I'm making decent money now, and I swear I'm going to get promoted.” What Johanna really wants is to work the front of the log drive, the more prestigious, difficult, and dangerous position. She had to admit, though, that she wasn't qualified when she started, and she's not qualified now, though she's getting closer.

Her father hasn't worked since his accident a year and a half ago, though the physical wounds have long since healed. She suspects he would have gone back to work if he had to, but by then she was making enough to support them both. He chooses instead to sit in his chair, grieving and watching life go by.

* * *

Johanna moves the flowers in the vase, the vase on the table, opens drawers and slams them shut, because if she doesn't distract herself, she's going to break down. And log drivers just don't do that. She's seen men with crushed limbs who managed not to embarrass themselves. And she'll be on camera from now until the day she dies.

She's not expecting anyone but her father to come see her off. She avoids women because she doesn't want to be treated like one, and she's worked hard at making the men resent her because she forced them to treat her like one.

So when the door opens and a woman's voice speaks, Johanna is so startled that her emotional control slips, and she hurls the china plate in her hand at the wall to patch her armor up with anger.

It's Sallie Whitepool, Johanna's neighbor, followed by her husband. Sallie's not crying, but her eyes are bright. Johanna turns to him for a mirror of emotionlessness.

“You took care of your dad all these years. It's a real shame what's happening to you.” Sallie presses her lips together. “I'm sure he'll give you something to carry into the arena, but you can take this on the train.” Sallie holds out a spray of yellow, red, and orange leaves. “Remind you that it's autumn back home.”

Wordlessly, Johanna accepts the leaves and places them on the table. “Dad's coming?” she asks, her voice thick but steady.

“Of course,” Sallie assures her. “He'll come say goodbye to you last.”

Last? Does that mean there's someone else?

There is, and her jaw drops when it's Art, one of her fellow drivers. They all hate her! Unless he's come to rub her misfortune in...but no one does that. Not on Reaping Day.

Art stares at her, uncomfortable, and Johanna raises her chin. Now she half hopes he's here to tell her she brought this on herself, because she could use the heat in her blood.

“Never thought a girl could do what you've done,” Art begins. “That's a man's work out there on the river. No one liked being wrong, and you didn't make us like you. But you're one of us.” Reaching into his pocket, he holds out a dull metal ring. “Dunno if they'll let you take it, but it's from all of us.”

It's the “all of us” that breaks her.

Johanna looks down and inspects the ring to hide her expression. It's a little small for a weapon, and covered in rust spots, but it's good and solid. She slides it up over her hand and onto her wrist. It looks like it belongs there.

“It's the ring from a cant hook,” Art tells her, “one of the old-fashioned kind.”

Johanna nods. It looks old. Then she braces herself and looks up at him. “You guys think I can make it?”

“Not a chance,” Art says brightly. Her blood surges, and she opens her mouth to retaliate. Then he winks, and she _gets_ it.

“Shows what you know,” she banters back, and through some miracle of self-control even manages to hit that same cheerful note.

Finally her father comes in, as tearless as she is. She doesn't remember how he met his mother's death, when she was too young and self-absorbed to notice other people. What she does remember is last year. She didn't miss her brother, twelve years older and living far away with his own family, but when the news of his death in the river came, she remembers her father grieving silently and passively for his first child. 

If he notices her new bracelet, he doesn't say anything, only ties a red ribbon around her other arm. “Your mother used to wear this in her hair.”

“One Career,” she promises him. “I'm going down fighting, and I'll take at least one Career with me.” 

“Oh, Johanna.” He pulls her impatiently into his arms, and she doesn't fight it. “You think I care about that?” 

Johanna returns the hug. Then she stands straight. “No, I don't think you care about much any more.” 

Her father touches her cheek. “I leave that to you. You're right, there won't be anything left for me to care about after this.” 

“I can care enough for two,” she assures him passionately.

When the Peacekeepers call time, Johanna watches the door close behind her father, never expecting to see him again.

* * *

“Oh my god!” Blight groans, shoving his head under the pillow. Johanna’s pounding and shouting have dredged him unwillingly back into consciousness. 

“I don’t need you,” Johanna informs him. “Just tell me where the training room is. I’ll fucking mentor myself!” 

“Twelve...A...Twelve,” he mumbles from beneath the pillow. “Ground floor. Turn off the light,” he moans. 

Slamming the door, Johanna leaves. She will. She’ll do this herself. She’s used to being surrounded by incompetence. She hardly gets to work with the cream of the crop, as a woman in a traditionally male career. 

Career. The word makes her shudder. There will be six of them this year, a full set. More, if any likely candidates from the outlying districts team up with them. 

Not her. She’s five foot four, and lean. She has a lot of stamina—she needs it, in her job—but she can’t lift or throw half of what she’d like to. She knows her way around the business end of an axe, but she’s never trained to kill anyone with it. 

Not her district partner, either. At thirteen, small and underfed, he looks like more of a liability than an ally, and she won’t be teaming up with him. She at least has the advantage of being eighteen, and of having gotten enough to eat from her job.

And she’s smart. She can do this. Johanna gives herself pep talks all the way down to the training room. It’s harder to find than she thought— _this is why other people have mentors—_ but she eventually makes it. 

At first, she’s torn between the weapons stations and the foraging stations. After some weighing of her options, she goes for the foraging. She’ll be unlikely to get her hands on a weapon, since she has no intention of going into the Cornucopia. She’s not good enough even with an axe that it’d be worth the risk. Not after taking one look at the Careers, who are all hovering around the weapons, showing off and taking each other’s measure. Even if she went over to those stations, she’d just be drawing their attention. 

The part of her that barged into a log drive job, elbows out and head up high, wants to, but the stakes are higher here. This isn’t her pride on the line, this is her life. She's going to keep her head down, because every year District Seven is targeted by the Career pack, whether they're part of it or not.

Food it is, then. Food becomes her primary occupation. Appropriate, for the Hunger Games. Storing enough energy in the next few days to get her through at least the first couple in the arena. And learning everything she can about obtaining food. 

She tries to get an idea from the plants station of what arena's likely to be like, but she just doesn’t know enough.

Then she overhears a couple Careers talking as they walk past. 

“Should we try the plants?” 

“If you want, but Mags says it’s the same station every year, very generic.”

Johanna wants to kill someone. Failing that, she wants to march up to the head Gamemaker and tap him (or her? Why doesn’t she have a mentor to tell her these things?) on the shoulder. _Excuse me? I’d like your job. I could do it better._

Abandoning the plants station, she starts hovering where she can eavesdrop on the other tributes. It’s how she hears the word “tapes.” 

She finds out that there’s a library down the hall where tributes can borrow viewings of previous Games. She marches in, determined to get every advantage she can. 

“Only two per tribute,” she’s told. 

“Okay...” Johanna thinks. “Give me the last two years where the victor won without being part of the Career pack.”

Odair's is basically useless-- _I didn't mean him!_ —but last year's girl didn't have much of a chance, and she still made it.

One thing stands out to Johanna. Cresta, mad with fear, was ignored by the Career pack, after _throwing stones at them_ , because they dismissed her as a frightened little girl. 

She can't beat them, but maybe she can outlast them. It's been done. It was done last year.

Johanna knows, with a sinking feeling, that that means the Gamemakers will be looking for a bloody win this year.

So be it. When it's her and the last Career, she'll give them all the blood they could want. Maybe some sass to go with it, if her throat isn't closed up with fear. Now she just has to play her part.

“I need everyone to overlook me,” she tells her stylist urgently. “District Seven always gets taken out because they know we do physical labor outside, and we're not a Career district so they don't have to save us for anything special.”

“Well.” The woman surveys her critically. “We may be able to come up with something. You are petite.”

Johanna's always resented her size, but now it may save her life.

“If only your hair were longer...but you can't wear extensions into the arena. Were you _trying_ to look like a boy?”

“Yes! You got a problem with that?”

“Well, it's not helping you now!” She gets herself under control. “A pixie cut, maybe. Try to make you look younger. Adorable's probably out of the question.” She's now muttering to herself under her breath, completely absorbed in her work. Then she looks at Johanna's two wrists. “You can only take one district token.”

Johanna narrows her eyes. She takes the red ribbon off her right sleeve and winds it around the metal ring around her left wrist, then ties the ends into a bow. It actually looks like it's supposed to be there. “It's part of the bracelet.”

She looks up challengingly at her stylist, who sighs. “Not my decision, but if they let it pass, I will.”

A style is only step one to being ignored. The critical part is how she carries herself on camera.

During her interviews, Johanna blocks out all thoughts of Art, the other drivers, every man who's ever told her she couldn't do what she's doing. They'll laugh. So be it. The Careers have to laugh.

She imagines Flickerman as a Career, and her throat closes up. She chokes, whispers, has to repeat herself even with the mic amplifying her words. She doesn't cry, but she shivers, and her eyes are wide. Her stylist has painted them so that they look too big for her face.

Johanna's shivering for real when she leaves the stage. She hopes it's been enough. Now she'll have to fight a Career, just so this isn't how everyone remembers her. _When I go out, I go out with blood on my hands._

Avoiding eye contact with her district partner as he takes her place, Johanna's gaze lands on one of the Career girls, who for some reason is still hanging around backstage. Oh, gross. Can you flirt with your mentor? Guess you can, if your mentor is Finnick Odair.

A quip, a sneer, a gag, anything would counter the chill in her belly. She actually opens her mouth as she passes them by, and then with a surge of fear, bites back the snark.

That girl is deadly. That girl may be an airhead with shitty taste, but she is not to be messed with, not this week.

With all the willpower she has, Johanna keeps her head down and walks by.

_Don't notice me._

* * *

Finnick settles down on the couch next to Mags, with Donn on the other side. Then he shifts his weight, ready to stand up again. “Wait, am I supposed to be working the sponsors?”

Mags shakes her head, sharply. “You're supposed to be learning how to mentor. Yes, sponsors are part of that, but I have nothing to teach you. You'll have plenty of time for all that after the Games. How long are you planning on staying?”

Finnick shrugs. “At least a couple months, maybe more. I might come back for the Victory Ball, depending on who wins.”

“So, when Donn and I are dead and you actually have to work them during the Games, I trust you'll have that part covered. Stay here and pay attention to what gifts, and when. There's an art to the timing.”

Finnick snaps a salute. “Aye aye, cap'n!” This kind of ignorance is why he's not allowed to formally mentor. He's just an apprentice, and not a promising one at that. Still, if Mags says he can learn, he guesses he can learn.

“Is Annie going to be okay?” he asks quietly.

Mags shrugs. Finnick knows it hides a worry that matches his own, but she has even more experience than he does masking her feelings. “If you think I can predict these things, I'm flattered, boy.”

“I mean, not coming, not even to the Reaping. Not whether she's going to get better, no one can know that.”

“She's not required to mentor as long as I'm here,” Mags says. She was the one who campaigned for that rule, in the early days. “And she couldn't even give her own speeches by the end of her Tour. If she didn't attend, they know it's because she can't.”

Finnick has to be content with that, but he of all people knows Annie's in better shape than she was during her tour. Maybe convincing her to leave the house with him wasn't such a great idea after all. She might be safer if they didn't know she was capable of it. Even if most of the time she's not.

He knows he can't afford to worry, much less miss her. He'll be here for a couple more months; Mags will go home and look out for her. It's not like the early days, when the punishments came swift and unforeseen. Mags knows more about elbow room than anyone.

Mags faces the screen. “It might be a couple hours, depending on where they're airlifting the tributes to. I wouldn't be surprised if it's far away from last year's arena, after the earthquake.”

“Won't want a repeat of that,” Donn agrees.

So when the television finally switches from pre-Games commentary to live footage, it takes a minute for everyone to process what they're seeing. The arena looks familiar, but outdoor settings with trees are pretty common, not enough to account for the nagging itch Finnick gets right away. It doesn't look anything like Four, so why does he have this feeling that he recognizes it?

“Holy shit!” Finnick bolts upright. He's got an eye for terrain, and that is the same damn arena as last year's. That's Annie's arena. Cornucopia in a different location, sure, but he recognizes it.

The realization is spreading around the room as the mentors realize it with varying degrees of speed and confidence. They look around at each other, unable to believe their own eyes.

“Have they done that before?” Donn asks Mags, stunned.

She and Finnick are shaking their heads. He doesn't have the tapes memorized as well as he did six years ago, but he'd remember that.

“Never,” Mags confirms.

“Say goodbye to our tributes?” Finnick asks cynically.

“Not necessarily,” Mags says. “We have two Careers, so as long as there's blood, the audience won't mind us bringing home a victor again. And I'm sure the Gamemakers drained all the water to avoid a repeat performance, so Four won't necessarily be targeted by the other Careers. Everyone knows last year was a 'fluke'.”

“So why-” It occurs to Finnick that the other arena may have been even more damaged. But considering the earthquake was strong enough to break a dam in this one, were they really building the other one even closer to the epicenter? Adjacent arenas, seriously?

Maybe just a mindfuck. Lure the tributes into overconfidence, watch them die.

“It's nothing like it was last year, anyway.” Mags is leaning forward, peering at the screen. “Almost no standing trees. No woods to hide in, just a lot of difficult terrain to maneuver. It's not the same arena.”

“Career advantage, then, unless there are a lot of good hiding spots under the fallen trees.” Finnick has to fight off the urge to set traps. When is he going to learn that he's not a tribute any more? The train ride here was unbelievable, he couldn't shut down the adrenaline no matter how much he reminded himself.

“There might be.” Mags pauses while the cannon fires, then continues when she can hear herself speak again. “But a Career victory, yes, that's what we can expect.”

The bloodbath begins. Palla and Conch grab spears and start slaughtering, along with Flicker, Aurora, Publius, and Shale. No outliers in the pack this year.

The clock ticks. No cannons fire. Depending on the Gamemakers, sometimes they wait until after the bloodbath and fire them all at once.

The bloodbath always feels like it lasts for hours, though in reality it's only a few minutes before the surviving outliers have dispersed and the Careers are picking over the supplies. All six are still alive.

Finnick breathes. “Well, that's something. Maybe I can sell Palla as a chance to redeem ourselves, get a proper victor.” He feels disloyal, saying that about Annie, but when in the Capitol, think like a Capitolite.

Anyway, Palla's a brave girl. She had her hand up in the air before they even finished the sentence calling for volunteers. After what happened to Annie, it'll be a long time before Four lets another reaped girl get sent in. It would be nice to see Palla come home.

“If you have the time,” Mags allows, “but remember the tributes can need you at any minute. You can't go disappearing into a Capitol bed while you've got someone depending on you in the arena.”

Finnick reminds himself that this isn't criticism. It's mentor training. If it sounds like criticism, he needs to get a grip.

The Career pack hunts, but not very far, and they return to the Cornucopia by nightfall. On the first day, they're not expected to get any more kills right away. The bloodbath usually sates the lust of the audience for a day or so, before they get antsy again.

With nothing much happening, the Four feed starts to skip around to different parts of the arena, show what the other tributes are up to.

Not being able to hide in the top of a tree is a real disadvantage, but they're doing the best they can. The District Three tributes hiked most of the afternoon, found the force field, and are building a hiding place out of branches just in front of it.

The boy from Ten is doing what Finnick would do, and improvising traps with leaves, pits, and branches. Considering he has no vines to work with, he's doing a good job. The Career pack would be wise to steer clear of that part of the arena.

One girl's found water, and started, clumsily, trying to fish.

“Looks like they didn't totally drain the arena.” This year's river is a bare shadow of last year's. No reservoir in sight, and it only peeks through as a stream here and there. Downstream, it's wholly choked with fallen trees. Upstream, there's barely enough water to flood a house. In between, there's only a short stretch of the water that's still flowing.

“What district is that, Seven?” Mags asks.

Finnick wonders if that's a teaching question, or if her eyes are starting to go. If he can't memorize twenty-four names and district numbers in four days...he's been known to do twice that at one party. The only reason he thinks in terms of numbers instead of names is because the names tell you nothing on the first day, but the district specialties sometimes do.

In any case, because it's Mags and he respects her whether she's being rhetorical or getting old, he answers seriously. “Seven, yes. Eighteen years old. Reaped.”

“Seven has a slight advantage this year, with all the fallen trees. Not to win, of course, but she, or her partner, might make the final eight. If they don't find her before then.”

Even beyond the fallen trees, the ground is very broken, with holes, drop-offs, and ravines everywhere. Finnick doesn't know how much of that is the earthquake and how much Gamemaker design. All he knows is that it wasn't this bad last year.

Maybe reusing the arena wasn't a sign the Gamemakers' hand was forced by nature. Maybe it was a good chance to try something new and old at once.

On the third day, the girl from One is impaled by a sharpened branch flying up out of a trap she sprung. Her cannon fires when her partner gives her a mercy kill.

An hour later, the viewing area echoes with mingled screams of frustration and cheers as the Careers all but trip over the tree hiding the culprit, but don't think to look _inside_.

With the boy from Ten still at large when night falls, the Career pack's enthusiasm for hunting cools. They don't stray too far for the next couple of days.

“Sometimes the Careers do this,” Mags says, resigned. “They'll get mutts. Maybe they even want mutts, think it's easier to fight something they can see near their stockpile of weapons.”

“The Cornucopia is a pretty defensible location,” Finnick points out, “and there are still five of them. I don't suppose the boy from Ten would be allowed to win? That was a pretty bloody death; another one or two like those, and he'd have something to talk about in his interview.”

“Anything's possible,” Mags concedes, “but he'll have to step it up. A good kill early on is nice, but the outliers get weaker, not stronger, as the game goes on. He may be conserving energy now, but I predict he lasts one more day before the dehydration gets him. The girl by the river is the only one with food and water, and she's as sick as a dog from what it's doing to her body.”

“If he were one of ours, he'd have sponsors for that kill,” Finnick says, “but...” Outliers don't have sponsors, not like Careers.

With the Career pack hugging the Cornucopia, the feeds are forced to spend more time on the outliers, and the outliers are forced to perform.

The boy from Six gets gored by some four-legged animal with horns. “That must have been some kind of mutt, but don't they usually don't send more than one?”

“Not unheard of,” Mags says. “They need to drag this out, after all, and it's not like he put up a fight.”

The girl from Seven is tying some logs together in the middle of the river. “A raft?” She doesn't even have rope, but she has some sturdy and flexible branches. It'll fall apart if you sneeze on it, but it might last long enough to do her some good. Besides, she's already proven she can balance standing up on a single log. Finnick, District Four, was impressed.

“Bad idea,” Mags says. “It's not going to protect her, and she's burning energy she can't afford. She has a hidey-hole in the ground, they can't find her unless they're almost on top of her, she needs to stay in it and wait them out.”

“She's not going to win by hiding, she has to know that. Not this year.” Finnick likes trying to get inside the heads of the tributes, figure out what they're thinking and what he'd do in their place. “The water seems pretty cold, judging by her reactions. Maybe she thinks the fishing will be better in the middle of the river.”

“She's not going to win by fishing either,” Donn points out.

“Well, what was it Annie said? Die a little comfortably? On a full stomach, at least.”

Mags shrugs. “She'd be better off staying in her hole in the ground, conserving energy, and focusing on finding food if she wants to mess with the river. Maybe she can't swim, but the Careers can, and she can't hide from them on the river.”

“Maybe she just feels better around trees.”

“I'm sure she does,” Mags snaps. “It's still a waste of energy. Tributes die every year in their comfort zone.”

The Seventy-First Hunger Games seems to be a year for comfort zones. The Careers, when they won't stray far from the Corncuopia, pay the price after a few days. It comes in the form of a giant whirlwind, sucking up tributes and goods and strewing them willy-nilly about the arena.

“Ouch.” Fininck winces. “If they were hoping for mutts, they got outplayed.”

“Surprising, though,” Donn comments. “This is going to favor the outliers."

“Not by much,” Mags says.

Most of the Careers are set down on their feet, but Palla's slammed like a broken doll onto a boulder. No cannon fires, but she lies unmoving.

The others are forced into hunting while they try to find each other. It makes for good viewing, and the audience is appeased...for now.

By nightfall, three of the four remaining Careers have joined up, Conch included, but Palla's name has finally gone dark on the scoreboard, and her cannon has fired.

“Should I have tried to sell her to the sponsors as our redemption for last year?” Finnick asks.

“You know how to ask that question,” Mags says sharply.

Finnick sighs. “Fine. _Next time_ something like this happens, should I try to sell the tribute as our redemption for last year?”

“You tell me. Pros and cons.”

Finnick's used to this. Mags likes him to work through a problem, and then she'll critique his solution.

“Well...because she comes from my district, my instinct is to try to bring her home. But from the point of view of the Capitol, it's a question of whether it would be worth their money. I have some influence with sponsors, but I can't afford to squander it on what I want instead of what's going to pay off.”

Donn stands up. “Well, if you two are going to be trying to decide whether it was worth trying to save Palla, I'll be taking my break. Try not to let Conch die while I'm gone.”

Finnick's head whips around in confusion as Donn leaves. “What was that all about?”

Mags doesn't look away from the screen. “I'll explain later. Carry on.”

“Well, to sum up, I want to save her, but I don't know if she was outstanding enough to be throwing my influence behind.” Finnick looks over at Mags for her to pass judgment on his analysis. 

Her lips are tight. “You're forgetting the biggest hole in your logic. You're acting like we have something to redeem.”

Finnick jerks at the displeasure in her voice.

“Victory isn't measured in kills. Annie had the skills to survive the flood, and she had the skills to survive until the flood. Since when is swimming not a District Four strength?”

“Look, I know that, and you know that, but the Capitol-”

“Then maybe it's time for you to convince them. And as for how she came out of the arena, look around you. Have you met Octavius? Where do you think Donn just went?”

Finnick has no idea where Donn went, but he's met Annie and he knows she's tough in a way that he's never had to find out if he is. He also knows the dangers of being valued by the Capitol. “If she can't make public appearances, she's better off if they ignore her. You want her to have my life?”

Mags gives Finnick a look he can't read. “Maybe not, at that. Come by my room later, when it's Donn's shift.”

Finnick would have anyway, but now he's tapping his foot, waiting for the hours to pass. Conch gets a kill, while he's waiting. A little glimmer of hope that maybe he'll come home, but Finnick's more concerned with his own mission, and whether he's giving Mags what she needs each year.

“Are you disappointed in me?” he asks when she sits down on the edge of her bed. Finnick stands in front of her, hands behind his back. He can be suave with anyone except Mags.

Mags closes her eyes and massages her temples. “No, I'm proud of you.”

The tightness that's been dogging Finnick all day releases him, just like that. He takes a seat next to her. “So what's Donn's problem with talking strategy? What the hell does he do every year sitting next to you?”

“It's not as simple for everyone as it is for you. I grew into strategy because just caring wasn't getting me or my tributes anywhere. I still care, I just...channel it. You may go the opposite direction, from pure strategy to channeling your caring, I don't know. You're still very young.”

Mags gives him a long look.

“I've been debating saying this to you in so many words. If I tell you you're self-centered, will you not take it wrong? It's kept you alive. And you're thriving in the Capitol in a way that no one else has. We need you. I just want you to know that if someone doesn't have your tunnel vision, that doesn't mean they're doing it wrong. We need them too.”

“As long as you're not telling me I'm doing it wrong.”

Mags leans her head against his arm, and the last of Finnick's tension leaves him. “Don't change for anyone else,” she advises him. “Just...be open to not being the same person in ten years?”

“I'll try,” he promises. Then he teases, “So you weren't like this when you were nineteen?”

“Like me now? Or like you? The answer to both is no. That would have been a waste of half a century. And I need you because you're not me. Keep being Finnick. But try to be patient with Donn. He takes the tributes' deaths hard.”

“And so do you, you just channel it?” Not for the first time, Finnick wonders if there's something wrong with him. Only he can't see any benefit to being broken-hearted over tributes he barely knows.

Mags sighs. “I usually have a rough time when I get home, for a few days or weeks after the Games. But I pull myself together. Mostly because I'm not alone. The other victors, the academy...look at the districts with the victors who are worst off, and they're usually alone or there's only a couple of them.”

“Some of One and Two, though, and even us-”

“I'm not saying it's a cure-all. I'm saying it can help. Think about it. Say you were born in, oh, District Nine. You might have won without any training. Maybe not at fourteen, but at eighteen you'd have had a shot. Even as a competitive outlier, though, do you think you weren't better off here, with mentoring and training before the Games, support afterward?”

Finnick imagines getting outsmarted by Sheer at the last minute. Imagines not knowing he's getting more out of the Capitol socialites than they are out of him. Unbearable. He shakes his head.

“So remember that if it weren't for Donn, you'd have been mentoring at fifteen. Be patient if he doesn't have your gift for strategy. He's a better mentor than you, at least for now, and you're more ruthless, at least for now.”

“But you're both.” Finnick kisses the top of her head. “I want to be like you, Mags.”

* * *

The next scene worthy of the name of entertainment comes when the Careers find water. The same water that the girl from Seven found on day one.

Mags clucks her tongue when the girl tries to escape. “That raft isn't going to save her.”

In the middle of the stream, Johanna unmoors her makeshift raft and begins using her pole to steer. The current is pretty fast, and she's making good time.

“You think she should steer toward land and try to run away, maybe climb a tree if she can find one still standing?”

“Well, it's too late now. They'll catch her up on land too. They've trained, she hasn't, no matter how much time she's spent navigating the outdoors. Conch knows what he's doing too.”

On the banks, the Careers chasing her are struggling with the sharp drop offs, the fallen trees, and deep gouges in the earth. It's not good sprinting terrain, and her lead on them is growing as the raft moves downstream.

But every time they try to enter the water, they shriek at the cold.

Finally Conch calls them off. “Let her get ahead. I'll go in in a bit and angle toward her. I can't swim straight across, and we don't know what the undercurrent's like. I don't want to end up downstream of her and have the raft slam into me.”

His face shows the shock when he enters the water, but he frowns in determination, and he makes toward the girl on the raft.

To her credit, she's not looking back. She's totally focused on her goal.

“I think she's done this before,” Finnick admires as she steers around a protruding boulder.

“Maybe so,” Mags concedes. “He's still going to catch her.”

He does, but only when the river curves abruptly, and Johanna runs into a pileup of logs all jammed together. The audience can hear her grunt as she tries to wrest herself free, but the sounds of splashing behind her force her to turn at last.

“Sssh.” Calming herself with a shush, Johanna stands at the ready, knees bent, clenching her pole. Her eyes are wide, her hand is steady.

Finnick leans forward, caught up in the tension. “She's in the zone.”

“Unusual,” Donn agrees.

Conch approaches, clenching his jaw in an effort to suppress the tremors. Finnick feels for him; at least his river was nice and balmy, even if it had giant toothy mutts or acid.

As soon as he reaches her wrecked raft, Conch tries yanking at the logs under her, but Johanna shifts her balance expertly and doesn't fall.

So he rears up in the water, bracing himself against the jam with one hand while he hefts his spear with the other and hurls it.

But he's shivering, the water is tugging at his body, and Johanna has a pole. She manages to dodge the spear and swipe it to the side, and suddenly Finnick's reliving the influx of Sheer's arrows with only a net as a shield.

He pulls himself back to see Johanna righting herself after almost falling, but catching herself with her pole. _Useful!_ Finnick admires.

The whole viewing area is silent. Conch looks over at his fallen spear, calculating a path to it.

Johanna swings her pole at his head.

Instantly, he drops in the water, to the sounds of a collective gasp, but emerges closer to his spear a second later. Finnick breathes out.

Johanna turns. Conch gathers himself, ready to lunge for the spear where it lies on the logs.

“No, don't take your eyes off her.” For the first time, Mags sounds worried.

Conch lunges. Johanna swings. A crack as the wood makes contact with his skull.

He collapses on the log, stretched out with one arm thrown forward. He's not moving, but Johanna adds in another blow for good measure. 

“No cannon,” Donn observes into the silence. Mags just shakes her head. Finnick can't take his eyes off the screen.

Then Johanna shoves at the body with the pole until he falls into the water. She pushes down on his head with the pole and stands there, waiting.

“Shit. He's going to drown.”

At last, the cannon goes off. Finnick, Mags, and Donn glance at the scoreboard for confirmation, but there it is. Conch's name has gone dark. Out of the running.

“Guess the raft saved her,” Donn says, still stunned.

Finnick's the first to recover, and he does it with a quip, as always. “Were you this wrong about my Games?” he teases.

Mags raises an eyebrow. “Can't predict everything.” Then she shakes herself, and her voice goes back to normal. “He shouldn't have taken his eyes off her. She was too focused. You can't ignore the girls just because they're small.”

Finnick puts an arm around her and squeezes. “I'm glad you weren't the small girl in my arena,” he says affectionately. “You think she's got this one?”

Mags shrugs. “Still a long way to go, and I still think they'll want a Career victory this year.”

“She's acting like a Career.”

“She's acting like an outlier who knows how to survive,” Mags corrects sharply. “She's showing them why it's traditional to take Seven out early.”

“Why don't they produce Careers? You'd think it'd be the obvious next step.”

“Who knows?” Donn says. “Their tributes show up wanting to be part of the pack from time to time, and we sometimes let them, but the district doesn't seem to want to train their kids.”

“Maybe I'll ask her,” Finnick half-jokes. Then he laughs at the expression on Mags' face.

“I'm not writing her off after this,” Mags tells him. “You may get your chance. But she's got a long, hard road ahead of her.”

On screen, the other Careers hear the cannon. “He got her!” Aurora exults.

“Are we going after him?” Flicker asks.

“Nah. Why tire ourselves out? He can't swim upstream, right? So he'll have to take the long way over the bank. Let's wait for him to come back, and then we'll decide where to go next. He'll get her supplies, but she couldn't have been carrying much.”

“If anything,” Flicker agrees.

“Oh, man,” Finnick groans appreciatively. “She's getting off scot-free!”

She, meanwhile, is curled up on the logs shaking, trying not to look at the body. Fucking adrenaline wearing off, he hates that.

“Get a grip, Mason,” she finally mutters. She looks over at the bank, straining her eyes, but nothing.

Johanna frowns, and then her face lights up, when she realizes that the cannon has bought her some time.

Still shaking, she hauls Conch's body just far enough onto a log to secure it from floating away. She shudders a couple more times, but she perseveres. Good for her.

When she's stripped the body, she has a pack, a piece of rope he was using as a belt, and a knife. She pulls out some fish that she tucked down the front of her shirt, and puts it in the pack.

“Smart girl,” Mags approves.

Finnick agrees. Not bad at all for an outlier.

Finally, Johanna stands, ready to leave. She needs to get out of there before they get suspicious about Conch's failure to return.

She's left her pole lying there and is holding Conch's metal spear instead. Normally Finnick would think that was a mistake, taking an unwieldy weapon she doesn't know how to use, but if she just treats it as a pole, it's a lot more durable than what she's got.

Already she's using the spear as a walking stick to help keep her balance on the floating logs. But before she's gone, Johanna hesitates. Turns around.

And then she uses the spear to push Conch back into the water.

“Did she just-” Donn can't believe his eyes.

“She buried him in the water.” Mags sounds surprised, impressed, grateful. Everything Finnick feels. He stares, hypnotized, at the screen.

Conch floats, waiting for the hovercraft to take him away.

Johanna starts to leave the river again, but on the bank, she suddenly turns back and starts crawling over the log pile she just left. A window in the bottom of the screen opens up and shows her bracelet slipping off her wrist during the struggle.

Mags sighs. “They always go after their tokens. If I had my way, we wouldn't have district tokens. They tie you down. They mess with your judgment.”

“I didn't take one.” Finnick smirks. “'Course, I knew I was coming home.”

“You may have been the most confident tribute to come home,” Mags admits. “Everyone more confident died.”

“Well, I was fourteen, I couldn't afford to be cocky.”

On the other side of Mags, Donn leans forward so Finnick can see him rolling his eyes. “How old were you? I've forgotten without someone to remind me in the last five minutes.”

Finnick snickers, and Mags bites down on a smile that warms him inside. He knows she's proud of him.

On screen, Johanna abandons her lost token and heads off to find a better hiding place.

Publius, from Two, gets taken out by a trap the boy from Ten made, before he succumbed to dehydration. His death leaves just Shale, from District Two and Flicker, from One, in the Career pack.

They hunt together, and keep watch in alternating shifts. Until the night that Flicker starts to twitch after dinner. Shale looks up curiously, but stays unconcerned as he falls to the ground, spasming.

Eventually, he lies still. Everyone glances at the scoreboard, but his name is still bright gold. In the running...in name at least.

Shale caresses his arm with the edge of her knife. He makes a strangled sound as the blood seeps out, but doesn't move.

“Watch out: District Two,” Finnick says, half disgusted, half with grudging admiration.

“She knows her poisons,” Donn's tone echoes his.

“District Two does what they have to do,” Mags says, a little impatiently. “It doesn't matter whether this is what she wants to do, she knows it's her ticket home, same as flirting is District One's ticket home.”

“More than that,” Finnick says. “When you know you need to do it, you start wanting to do it. Eventually you can't tell the difference.”

Finnick knows if he were from District Two, he'd be cutting up his paralyzed allies and sleeping like a baby. He can only afford the disgust because he got a different deal, that's all. The same way they're disgusted at him.

Mags glances at him, but he keeps his eyes straight ahead on the screen. After two hours of this, Finnick is suppressing the part of his brain that wants this to be over. He's in the Capitol, he has to think like the Capitol. Only he's also sitting next to a clinical, critical Mags and trying to impress her at the same time.

“Should she have waited until the end game?”

“Time will tell, but probably not. It's good to have someone with you against outside threats, but Two's strategy is usually to strike first, when the odds aren't level. Everyone likes a big showdown at the end, but the tributes like coming home, and if they can make it bloody enough, they'll be forgiven for the big clashing of spears and swords everyone was looking forward to.”

“They bring the most tributes home,” Donn points out. Violence sells even better than sex in the Capitol. “Plus, some of those One kids are really good with swords, and you don't want to mess with them. It's usually a tossup between One and Two when it comes to weapons proficiency.”

“Bet it gives Donna ideas,” Finnick mutters under his breath. He can just imagine himself, paralyzed and bleeding on the sheets, a smile frozen onto his face.

Donn glances over, then realizes Finnick wasn't talking to him. “Who's Donna?”

“No one you need to worry about,” Finnick answers, knowing he should have kept his mouth shut. He'll summon up his masochistic persona when he needs to, like he always does. He doesn't know why he's making such a big fuss over it today. Pain's easy once he's in the zone, anyway. It's far from his least favorite kink.

It's just hard to be halfway in the Capitol, halfway in Four. Maybe he'll tell Mags mentoring is too much. Or maybe he'll man up and deal with it.

“I'd say Shale made the right call,” Mags concludes.

Just then, a motion in the shadows, a scream, a knife at Shale's throat.

Finnick jumps on the couch, then tries to hide his embarrassment.

Donn doesn't give him a hard time, though, just a sympathetic look. “You can always tell the tributes who are fresh out of the arena.”

Mags pats his knee while they watch Shale collapse forward. She struggles, but the other tribute—Johanna Mason, of course—throws herself on top of her, crushing her, and pins her in place while she frees her knife from the girl's throat.

The cannon goes off.

The whole time, Johanna has her eyes pinned on Flicker. He hasn't moved, but she hasn't made Conch's mistake of thinking he's not a threat. She sizes him up, readies herself to pounce, and then freezes, taking in the whole picture. The hundred cuts, the twitches, the terror in his eye.

Johanna starts shaking. Looking sick, she pulls herself off Shale and starts to flee, then turns back for her spear. Then she turns back again for Shale's pack. She doesn't touch Flicker.

She runs as far and as fast as her trembling legs can take her, but she's weak and sick from lack of food and dirty water and collapses quickly, dry heaving.

“Who is this girl?” Mags marvels. “I don't even remember her interview.”

“That's because it was terrible!” Finnick tells her. “I remember it clearly. I wrote her off as a contender.”

“Is she?” Donn asks.

Mags makes a face. “You're asking me? I've been wrong about everything this year. Even so, it's hard to imagine they'll let anyone but her or Flicker win. And she's put on a better show.”

“But he's got the sponsors,” Finnick points out. It's hard to see Flicker lying there unmoving and covered in superficial cuts _without_ thinking of sex. Shale may have done him a favor without meaning to.

_Some favor._

“Besides, that was a very amateur attack,” Donn points out. “If she wins, it'll be because she got lucky several times over.”

“It always is,” Mags insists.

Finnick has his own opinion of Johanna's performance. “It's not much worse than the time the Six tributes ran into me.”

He's gotten himself under control again, and he takes Mags' hand in his, silently putting a stop to her methodical patting. He's grateful that she knows what he needs after an adrenaline rush, but he still wishes it were Annie. It's less embarrassing, and more comfortable, with her.

He'll be glad when it stops happening. Finnick would ask how long it takes before you calm the fuck down, but he knows the answer: it depends. Probably longer for him, with all the time he puts in at the academy.

“Risky to leave a District One tribute to bleed out,” Finnick comments. “Cashmere won that way not too long ago.”

“That girl's had good kills, though,” Mags counters. “The Gamemakers may decide she's earned her victory.”

“He's got sponsors.”

“But no one to apply any medication they send. His only hope is the poison wearing off in time for him to do something.”

Finnick doesn't know why he's arguing. He and Mags both agree it can go either way at this point. “But sponsors can influence Gamemakers, and Gamemakers can turn the tide.”

“We'll see.”

It's him or her, realistically. There may be two other outliers left, but after last year, it'll have to be someone who gave a good show. Winning by hiding and outlasting the competition works once every decade or so.

Besides those two, only the boys from Five and Nine are left. Johanna's going through Shale's pack, torn between the urge to stuff her face and the awareness that this girl was carrying poisoned food.

Flicker's twitching. As the night wears on, he slowly starts moving more and more. Once he's capable of raising his head and moving his arms, the parachutes start raining down.

Finnick nods grimly. “It's a shame. She came out of nowhere and made the final four. Whoever's mentoring Flicker should buy Blight a drink, because I thought Shale had this year locked up.”

By morning, Flicker has staggered to his feet. He's weak, but he has the sense to draw his sword and look like a bloodied but victorious warrior.

That lasts just long enough to be photogenic, and then the mutts come.

Scorpios, giant scorpion mutts three feet tall, with venomous stingers a foot long.

The screen splits. On the left, Flicker assumes a defensive stance. Johanna raises her head on the right. She has a spear and a knife, but no training in how to use them.

In the distance, one of the outliers screams. The first Scorpio appears in Johanna's line of sight, scurrying toward her on too many legs.

Flicker tunes out the scream. He's in the zone, conserving energy and slicing at the mutts as they come at him, with an economy of motion that makes Finnick want to throw himself into the arena beside the boy and fight back to back.

Fleeing, Johanna gasps, “I don't have to outrun the bear. I only have to outrun you!”

Distracted by the sound of speech at a time like this, Finnick takes his eyes off Flicker and finally realizes Johanna's not running directly away from the approaching mutts. She's angling toward the screams of other tributes.

“What did she say?” he asks. She's running—where?

“She's figured out that she doesn't have to kill the mutts,” Mags tells him. “She just has to be the last tribute still breathing.”

“Oh, man. That's a gamble. With three other tributes left?” But it makes sense now. Flicker went for the mutts because he's been trained to fight. She ran away because she hasn't, but not before telling everyone listening that she's going for the outliers.

“I'm not saying it's going to work. I'm saying she's fighting to the end. With her brain, too.”

A cannon goes off. District Nine has succumbed to the scorpions.

Johanna and the boy from Five, Ray, are being herded together. Ray's still trying to escape, running as fast as he can. Johanna readies her spear inexpertly, and Finnick flinches. She doesn't know how to throw it, she's going to miss.

But she holds her fire. The first stinger sinks into her left arm. She screams, stumbles, but swipes crudely to the side with the spear, still trying to run Ray down without tripping over the spear. It's the messiest thing Finnick's seen in a long time.

She's three feet away from being able to thrust instead of throw when a cannon goes off. Finnick realizes he's switched his attention to Johanna, and looks back at the left side of the screen, where Flicker has fallen.

Startled, Johanna hurls, just as a stinger gets her in the back. Her spear penetrates Ray's lower back, but not very deeply. They fall at the same time, him thrashing and moaning, her gasping.

As the venom sinks in, Johanna drags herself blindly on her hands and knees toward her victim. She collapses on top of him, sawing weakly at his throat with her knife, before she goes utterly motionless.

A cannon fires.

Everyone whips around at the scoreboard, but it hasn't updated yet. “It has to be her!” Finnick shouts into the uproar.

Then everyone is silent, because the announcer's voice is echoing through the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the winner of the Seventy-First Hunger Games, Johanna Mason!”

* * *

When Johanna gets off the train at the Victors' Village, she doesn't see anyone she recognizes. She knows the Village is at least a day's journey from where she used to live. But surely they let her father travel, even if she and her winnings weren't technically here yet to pay for it? 

_They don't give a damn about us._

She waves to the crowd, gives a brief speech, and lets Tully, District Seven's Capitol escort, show off her new home. It's nice. It's big, certainly, with four bedrooms, and a well-appointed kitchen. If you're going to win the Hunger Games, she supposes, your life afterward might as well revolve around food. 

The Village itself is pretty empty, inhabited only by her and Blight, but she gets a tour of Despard, the neighboring town, too: where to eat, where to buy clothes, medication, and other necessities, and where to find the few sources of entertainment and luxury. “They built the Village here, far in the south,” Tully explains, “because of the natural beauty, the hot springs, and the relatively mild climate. I say relatively: there's plenty of snowfall, but you're mostly sheltered from the wind, and it doesn't flood.” 

She can get someone in Despard to show her to the hot springs and the hiking trails, because Tully is unfond of physical exertion. “Just stay on the trails,” she's warned. “And the pools are unmanned, so if you go alone, you're swimming alone.” 

Before, the town would have seemed huge to Johanna. She's lived in encampments on the banks of a river where the drivers spend nights, or the little towns that grew up around sawmills. But after the Capitol, even this place seems small and provincial. It's even more isolated than what she's used to. There, the river links you to places far away and makes you part of a larger community. Here, up in the mountains, she feels like the sky and earth could swallow up all human habitation, and no one would notice.

Standing at her kitchen window, leaning her elbows on the windowsill, Johanna has to admit the sights are breathtaking. She wonders if the victors of other districts get anything like these looming peaks, blanketed in green pine and crowned in snow, set against crisp blue skies. 

Maybe it'll wake her father up, finally. She'll drag him out exploring with her, and they'll just see about the paths and how strictly enforced staying on them is.

Because of the mountainous topography, the early November snow, and the need to yield the river to lumber transports, it actually takes Johanna a lot longer than a day to get back to what she still considers home. Oversleeping and missing the first northbound boat costs her another day. _Damn painkillers._

But finally she's back on familiar ground, and she barges into her old house. It's empty, and dim even after she yanks the curtains open to find the floors and furniture coated in layers of undisturbed dust. _Did we miss each other in transit?_

In the end, she has to pound on a neighbor's door. Sallie answers, and her face crumples into pity when she sees who it is. 

Johanna's annoyed. She's already explained repeatedly in interviews that the scared little girl was an act. Can't people look more impressed? She killed two Careers. 

“Hello, dear. Come on in.” 

“Where's my father?” Johanna has no patience for small talk. 

“Come in,” Sallie urges, “sit down.” She opens the door wider and makes an inviting gesture that Johanna ignores. 

“What do you mean, sit down?” Johanna demands, suddenly cold. “Is he dead? Did he have a heart attack?” 

“On Reaping Day-” 

“He came and saw me off on Reaping Day!” 

“And then he went home and hanged himself,” Sallie says. “My man found him. Come and have some tea, dear.” 

Johanna doesn't answer. In a daze, moving on automatic, her feet take her back to their old house. She wanders through the three rooms—living room, kitchen, bedroom—looking for something she can't find. 

“You bastard!” she finally yells at the empty chair facing the living room fireplace. “You didn't believe in me at all, did you? Who's been supporting you? You think _anyone_ could find a job where they don't take women, and demand the same pay? You have to be fucking _amazing_ at what you do. You have to be _me!_ ” Then her anger breaks, and her voice falls. 

“I told you I'd take out at least one Career,” she says more quietly. “You could have stayed and watched that much.” 

Abruptly, she turns away and resumes pacing the house. The only thing she finds that she wants to take with her are her tools. She goes through the motions of cleaning them. Unnecessarily, since she polished them to a sparkle the night before she left, but the act serves as a distraction. 

Then Johanna straightens, and she moves to take her leave. “Well, you really are one of the ghosts now,” she says in the direction of the chair. No one else lived in this house, not her grandmother or brother, and certainly not her mother. But ghosts, she's convinced, are tied to people, not to houses. 

“I guess you can all come live in the Victors' Village,” she tells them.

* * *

They take her up on the offer.

 _Where did you hang yourself?_ Johanna asks him, stretched out on the couch in her new living room.

All the euphoria of last night's painkillers has worn off, but she's still groggy, and she can't keep the morbid images out of her mind.

He usually kept his chair by the fireplace. But was there anywhere above to secure the other end of the rope? She can't remember.

Trying to visualize the ceiling of her old house is easier than trying to visualize his face the last time she saw him, wondering if she should have realized, if she should have said something different. Maybe “going down fighting” was the wrong way to put it. Maybe he didn't want to see her die a bloody death.

Maybe he didn't want to see her with blood on her hands. She'd thought, after Reaping Day, that maybe she had some camaraderie with the rest of her team after all. But now it looks like that was just kindness to someone you'll never see again. No one wants anything to do with her now. Not at home, and not here.

A banging on her door interrupts her train of self-pity. Johanna's heart speeds up for just a second, but she can't sustain any kind of feeling. If it's the Peacekeepers, let them come in and do what they want.

Finally, the door opens, but it's just Blight. “Johanna?”

“Where the actual fuck did you get a key to my house?” Outrage propels her into sitting up, but what scares Johanna is that she doesn't feel outrage. She just knows, through the perpetual fog, that this is the sort of thing that outrages her, and so she has to react accordingly.

“Nobody's seen you in a week. We had to make sure you're still alive.”

“Get the fuck out of my house!” She remembers the words even if she doesn't feel them. “And give me that key!”

“Do you have anything to eat?”

“Don't come in here mother henning me now that I'm a victor after you wanted nothing to do with me when I was a tribute.”

“You're impossible. You're not going to do anything stupid if we leave you alone?”

She grabs the key out of his hand. “Remember, I had kills that were stronger competitors than you!”

The door slams.

_That's right. You always give up easy._

Maybe in one of the trees outside the house. Johanna lies down again on the couch, her thoughts drifting back to where they were before the interruption. Plenty of good spots for hanging there.

Appropriate, too. District Seven's victor loses her father to District Seven's main resource.

Not that you get to blame the real culprits, not out loud anyway. What the fuck was she doing in the arena? She was supposed to be working her way up the ladder, get promoted. She even dreamed about being a drive boss someday.

And if they were going to sic this house on her, couldn't they at least leave her someone to share it with? It's too huge to be this empty.

Not as empty as she feels.

Summoning up all her energy, Johanna swings her legs off the couch. Maybe she can flush all her pills down the toilet, then she'll be able to stop taking them and be herself again. Maybe she can learn to like being in pain, if it gives her her anger back.

Pain is one thing, though. She tries to like it, but she can't find a comfortable position to sleep in once her wounds start flaring up, and even when she does sleep, the pain keeps waking her up. In the morning, she's as foggy as if she'd taken a full dose of her pills. She can only imagine the rest of her life will be like this. Already she regrets not leaving herself enough to see if a smaller dose can take the edge off the pain.

Johanna's doing the math and thinking about a trip into town, when she kicks herself.

Fuck, no. She's not going to be one of those weaklings who fall apart after the Games. You don't see the victors who earned their kills this helpless afterward. Just the ones like Blight, or Abernathy, who can't handle what they did, or their new life, or something.

Johanna has no regrets, and she'll get used to this life. It's not like her father had tidy little pills when he lost his fingers. He drank moonshine like a man, and he stopped when the worst was over.

Well, it's over. And she can deal with her little twinges like a man.

It's not like it's real pain, anyway. Nothing like when the stingers sank in and she collapsed within seconds, unable to even speak. She knows what real pain is, not this little nagging that's uncomfortable but you can grit your teeth through it.

As tired as she is, she looks forward to a good night's sleep that second night. If this is how she has to do it, alternating sleep deprivation with feeling like herself, she can do that. Easier than telling herself that she has to sneak up on the two Careers she just stumbled across, before _they_ stumble on her.

But that night, the moonlight reflects off the snow through the bay windows into a sleepless room. In her bed big enough for three, Johanna tosses and turns. Despite the cold, she's sweating heavily, until she has to throw off her eiderdown quilts.

Eventually, the insomnia is so bad she can't stand to be in this bed one minute longer. Johanna decides to take advantage of her house, and she climbs into bed in another bedroom, slightly less cavernous but still elaborate.

Restlessly, she moves from room to room all night, trying and failing to catch more than snatches of sleep in any of them. Each bedroom is tastefully themed with woods of a different tree, but none of them can make her stop wanting to strip her own crawling skin off.

In the fourth bedroom, toward dawn, her guts start trying to claw their way out of her body. 

Morning comes without relief. Johanna barely manages to stumble to the kitchen and drink a glass of milk, and then she can't hold it down.

By noon, she's gotten to know her luxurious bathrooms intimately. 

_I can't live like this._

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, shivering and sweating, Johanna realizes that this is going to be her life from now on. She can't believe she coincidentally came down with a bug the day she stopped her medication.

There's only the one thing for it. She made it through the Hunger Games shaky, weak, and with miserable bowels, from poor food and poor water. She can make it to Despard like this. Just hold it together long enough to get there, and she won't ever have to feel like this again.

Pulling on a pair of boots and a coat, Johanna drags herself out her front door.

On the porch is a bottle of pills, thoughtfully left by the door. Without even worrying about who knew, how they knew, what it means, Johanna falls to her knees beside the bottle.

She downs the first pill without even any water.

* * *

Dancing with Johanna's like holding a powder keg. She goes through the motions with Finnick tamely enough, but her teeth are gritted, her eyes are fever bright, and she's so tense that she might break loose at any moment and pull out of his arms entirely.

Finnick feels a wave of tension pass over him too. It's the same feeling of helplessness that he felt when he watched her kill the tribute he'd sent into the arena. Johanna's finding out what it's like to be a victor, and he can't save her any more than he could Conch. Well, if he's lucky, maybe he can mentor her. 

He dances with her three times before she gets suspicious and confrontational. "What do you want? Don't you have prettier, richer tail to chase?" 

The hard part of having built his reputation around getting the Capitol watchdogs not to take him seriously is that when he needs to earn someone's trust, no one takes him seriously. 

"Everyone's been admiring your acting skills since you won. Happens I'm something of an actor myself," he confides. 

Johanna snorts, but she relaxes just the tiniest fraction. She's smart enough, or duplicitous enough, to read between the lines of what he's saying, and he's grateful, because that will make this easier.

"That girl was right, then, you're actually going to die a virgin?" 

Finnick laughs uproariously. "Okay, I'm not _that_ good at acting. But I can tell you one thing: 'victor'..." He waves his hand around at the room of people gaily laughing while they dance and gorge themselves. "Has more in common with 'victim' than you might think." 

Johanna's been watching the room until now, like she can't afford to lose track of her surroundings before she's attacked, or maybe only like she doesn't want a permanent crick in her neck from staring up ten inches, but at those words, her head does jerk suddenly up to look Finnick in the eye. 

Beneath the knee-jerk hostility and defensiveness, he reads desperation, like she's been praying for a lifeline and has just spotted something that might be a rope and might be a coiled snake about to bite her. 

He gives her the tiniest of reassuring nods, meeting her eyes steadily, and he feels her take in a deep, shuddering gasp. She's even tenser now, but it's not quite as directed at him. 

"How much has your mentor been able to prepare you?" he asks gently. 

At that, Johanna does pull out of his arms, freeing her hands to make choking motions on an invisible throat. "My mentor is fucking _useless_!" she rages. 

Always conscious of the watching eyes that never leave them, Finnick laughs and reaches back for her like nothing's wrong. After a quick glance to the side, Johanna moves back into position for the same reason, and they resume dancing. The measure is almost over, and he'll have to relinquish her soon, or risk starting rumors that don't fit into his well-laid plans. But he's made the crucial breakthrough, and that's the important thing. 

"My night's booked full," he murmurs, "but if you're up for a spot of acting, catch me sometime after breakfast tomorrow and we'll go somewhere more...private." Even if anyone overhears them, that'll be met with knowing winks rather than suspicion. 

"You know where I'm staying, of course," she murmurs back. 

"You're staying where the victors always stay," Finnick confirms in answer, and then the music stops. Just before they separate, he says in a voice for her ears alone, "Stay safe." 

Something about her body language speaks of reluctance to leave what's become her new haven, but she goes without protest, knowing as well as he does that they're both bound by expectations. 

Finnick greets his new partner with his face flushed and his heart beating faster. She's delighted, thinking it's for her, but like everyone else, she's interpreting as lust what is really victory in this game of intrigue. He's staying one step ahead of the Capitol...or maybe one step behind, if Johanna's been hurt badly enough that she already knows life as a victor is nothing to envy. Still, he'll count anything he can get as a victory, however small. 

The next morning, Finnick's not unprepared for Johanna's renewed suspicion when he suggests a picnic in a park. Standing in the foyer of the Hunger Games facilities, he holds up a basket he's prepared for the occasion. 

Johanna takes a step back and unconsciously assumes a defensive stance. He's quite certain she's got a knife on her person somewhere. "If this is a ploy to get me in your clutches-" 

"It is a ploy." He rolls his eyes and shows her his impatience, because he thinks it'll be the most convincing approach. "You think I'm doing this for fun?" 

She narrows her eyes, but it's altogether too plausible that neither of them is having fun. Still, she can't let this go without a threat. "I swear to god, you make one move and you'll find out how I killed your tribute." 

Finnick smiles. Although Conch's death still stings, he has to work with the present, not linger over the regrets of the past. "If I touch you without permission, I know you know where my kidneys are." 

"I know where your fucking balls are," she mutters to herself, but quietly enough that he knows she's convinced and only trying to get the last word. With that, Johanna sets off outside the sliding doors, striding a good ways ahead of him until he catches up. "Where are we going? It's below freezing out here." 

"The parks around here are climate-controlled," he tells her. "We can have some comfort and privacy." 

They're walking down the sidewalk together, and Johanna comes to an abrupt halt in front of a store window, forcing traffic to flow around her. "Really? _That's_ the most private place you can think of? Under a _dome_?" 

Finnick doesn't blame her for assuming it'll be riddled with bugs. It will, actually. It's just that in this one park, he feels reasonably confident about his knowledge of where the bugs are and how to avoid them. "I've been coming to the Capitol for six years," he reminds her. "I know where all the good spots are. This one comes highly recommended." 

Once again, he's convinced her, but only barely. She begins walking again. "By one of your lovers?" she asks disdainfully. 

"District Three," he says, as quietly as he can. Mags put him in touch with Beetee early on, during his first Victory Tour. This is still Johanna's first year, and everything will be new to her, but at least she'll know who does electronics. 

He's right: the mention of Three pacifies her, and she doesn't put up any more of a fight until they reach their destination. He finds them a spot in the one of exposed grassy stretches, away from sidewalks, fountains, and trees. In the basket he carries is a small scrambler that should mask their conversation with static against any devices that may be buried in the ground directly below them. There shouldn't be any, as it's hard to keep people and dogs from finding those, but this is about as safe as it gets. And it doesn't look nearly as suspicious as two victors wandering off to a place that's obviously unbugged. 

Johanna looks around, sees the advantages of being away from man-made objects, and draws the obvious conclusion. If they're going to hide in plain sight, then this had better look convincingly like a romantic tryst. She starts shaking her head. "So now we have to put on a show. Mmhmm." 

"Not much of one," Finnick says mildly. "We just met." 

"Oh, like that's stopped you before." Her voice drips with sarcasm. 

"Well, that's just me. You can play as coy as you want. If anyone asks, I didn't get lucky this time." 

Johanna just shakes her head, convincing herself that he's talking her into tying the noose around her own neck and calling it suicide instead of murder. He knows the feeling: everything he's been forced to do he did voluntarily, even to rigging the draw for his Games. He had no way to ensure he stayed out, so he went in on his own terms. 

"Johanna. Knife, kidney." 

"I should have brought an axe," she mutters. She's a big mutterer, he's finding. But she lowers herself to the blanket, eyes daring him to come in too close. 

Suddenly, he realizes what's so familiar about her. _If I felt as threatened as Annie does, this is how I'd act._ He only feels more in control of his situation than either of them, that's all. And that's thanks to Mags. 

He sits on the other side of the blanket, leaving the picnic basket a safe barrier between them. They have to nibble on rolls for appearances' sake, but neither of them has much appetite. 

"So?" Johanna demands. "What's all this brilliant advice you have?" 

"Advice is hard," Finnick says. "I thought I'd start with information, and we'd go from there. First things first. I have no idea what your life has been like since you became a victor, none at all. But I'm here to tell you this: it's not just you. It's all of us, or a large portion of us." 

Johanna's shoulders sag in mingled relief and fear. Relief that she's not alone; fear that this trap will be harder to escape than she imagined. 

Finnick continues. "Once we win, we have a certain amount of influence and wealth. Snow wants to make sure that doesn't come with too much self-confidence. He takes a rather... unhealthy interest in our personal lives. If you don't talk to the other victors, you'll think it's just you, because he makes you put on a show of doing something because you want to. No one will ever connect your behavior to him, and it shapes what people think of you." 

Johanna's nodding, listening to a familiar story, but at the same time she's scanning him, applying this template to what she knows of him. 

" _All_ of it?" He does have quite a wild reputation, and if she's guessing that all the affairs he's been having on camera have been inflicted by men with the power to kill him, then her shock is understandable. 

Finnick shrugs. "Some of it. It's not as bad as it looks, for me. For other people, it's worse. I was lucky that I knew what he was up to, so I've made a point of not giving him any purchase. Even if he tries to get creative in maneuvering me into a situation, I've probably already tried it on my own, or I'm about to. Being frivolous has won me a few benefits, beyond just staying slippery. I've made a million connections that are going to pay off later, and whatever I'm doing in plain sight I can do without anyone realizing what I'm up to. No one thinks I can keep two consecutive thoughts in my head that don't have to do with my own pleasure." 

"Well, I certainly didn't," Johanna tells him. She's rapidly reappraising him and trying to decide what's real and what's not. He thanks all the powers there are that she knows firsthand how easy it is to adopt an entirely different persona, convincingly enough to keep you alive in the face of an entire country scrutinizing your every move. The plausibility of his claim is the one thing she's _not_ suspicious of. 

"Good." He smiles his compliments at her. "I didn't see you coming either."

Johanna's lips tighten. "So that's it? Just play along?" 

Finnick shakes his head emphatically. "No, I'm just telling you what works for me.” 

He passes on still more information: outlining the victors who can be trusted, victors who cannot, and the rare few, victors who can be trusted and are also capable of being useful. The list culminates in, "Haymitch, probably the hardest to classify. He's sharp, and at his best, he has the potential to be useful. At his worst...I have no direct evidence he spills secrets when he's drunk enough, but that's because I haven't felt confident enough to entrust anything sensitive to him." 

“And all these people are paying the price of victory?” Johanna asks. “Like what?” 

Finnick shakes his head. "Aside from the self-medication that’s public knowledge, and a few rumors of attempted and successful suicides, I am privy to a few secrets that I'm not at liberty to share. As for the others, all I have is speculation. If you want my guesses, the rumor mill has Cashmere high on Snow's personal wet dream list. Mind you, I've gotten no whiff of a hint in six years that the man gets laid himself. He gets off on power and vicarious sex." 

Finnick has the impression that the victors whose lives are already ruined are left alone, as not being threats. He hopes so. Annie almost never leaves her house, so surely there's not much they can do to her. Although...A frisson of fear runs through him. He needs to find out if she's just afraid of everything now, like she says, or if there's a specific threat that's keeping her at home. 

Surely not, he insists. Annie would tell him, and even if not, Mags would know. Mags knows everything. Finnick relaxes a little and returns his attention to the woman sitting in front of him. 

"I wouldn't for a minute consider telling you my secret, if I didn't think there just might be a way out of this trap, and I don't know who else to talk to." 

Finnick nods his encouragement. "Anything I can do or anyone I can put you in touch with, I will." 

"You were watching my Games," she begins. "You saw the state I was in when I came out. Unconscious, paralyzed, in agony from the Scorpio venom. They asked me when I woke up if I wanted painkillers. Hell, yes, I wanted painkillers. I was in pain!" 

"Oh, no," Finnick groans. "Morphling?" 

"No!" She punches the picnic basket between them. Finnick counts himself lucky she didn't punch him. "Give me credit for having the sense to ask. They said nooo, not morphling. It had some name a hundred syllables long. Fine, whatever, they're doctors. They know their job. So now I'm addicted to something I can't pronounce. 

"I thought it was just me," she whispers, in horror. "I thought I just couldn't shake them when I was done, like everyone else. I've told myself I was being weak. I tried going off them a dozen times. I couldn't stand it. It should be worth it, but I don't have enough willpower. And now you're telling me they did this to me on purpose?!" 

Finnick closes his eyes. If Mags has seen this year after year, no wonder she can't do enough to get a revolution started. Watching your tributes die is bad enough. Watching your only friends live like this on top of it... 

"Are you having trouble getting them in District Seven?" 

Johanna looks blank. "No, I've plenty of money." 

Finnick raises his eyebrows. "Psychotropic medications are pretty heavily regulated. Money won't get you anything if you don't get lucky navigating the bureaucracy, and it's all doled out pretty sparingly regardless." 

Johanna knows without being told who he’s talking about. She shrugs. "Well, they're not addictive, are they? I guess if they keep supplying you with painkillers, they can watch you keep going back for more. Hell, if I couldn't get them at home, maybe I'd have ridden out the worst of the withdrawal and shaken it by now. But if they withhold your psych meds, they can watch you go crazy inside your own head and blame yourself for being weak and not having enough willpower to function without them." 

Suddenly Finnick is sure he knows the hold Snow has on Annie. He's going to bring her a stash from the Capitol, as much as he can get his hands on. Legality be damned. 

"I'll find out what I can," he promises her. "I don't know anything myself about breaking addiction, but I'll find out."

"I leave on the train for District Seven in a few hours," she reminds him. 

Damn. Time is never on their side. "Me too, later tonight. But I'll see you in a few months at the Seventy-Second Hunger Games?" 

Johanna growls. "You'll have to. I'm the only female winner in Seven, and I'll have to be here to mentor." 

It's not Finnick's turn next year, but he'll come for Johanna anyway, mentor or not. Maybe he'll skip the Victory Ball and go home early to Annie. 

"We'll solve this,” Finnick promises. “I don't think it's an accident they chose addiction with you. You showed them how smart you are." He doesn't know any details of what she might be taking, but if it's a painkiller, it's likely to make her mentally fuzzy, especially if it was expressly chosen for the purpose of neutralizing her. 

"And you didn't. You're right, I'd never have figured you out." 

Finnick nods. "Mags told me not to. She said sex appeal was safest. It was practically the first thing she said to me out of the arena," he tells Johanna, "not to let them see my brain when I gave my interviews. Then she was arranging things with my stylist team behind my back. As soon as we got home, she started explaining the risks. And wow, I've known her almost my whole life, and I'm just now realizing how smart _she_ is." 

"It'd sure be nice if _I_ had a mentor worth the name," Johanna snarls. 

It would. Not that it saved Annie, but Johanna's more like him. "I'll share her, if you want. I won't spill any of your secrets, but I'll see if she has any advice. Look, if I'm in any better condition than most of the other victors, it's because I had Mags." 

Johanna's silent for a while, chewing over everything she's learned today. When she speaks, it's to tug on a thread of the conversation that Finnick casually dropped earlier. “You mentioned suicides—is that common?” 

It's obvious she's asking out of personal interest. Finnick doesn't think it's herself she has in mind, but he doesn't know her well enough to be sure. He answers cautiously, keeping a close eye on her reaction, “Hard to say. There's always an official reason given that's very plausible, and the autopsies are done by people in power.” 

“Still, sounds like victors have plenty of reason to off themselves.” 

Now he's sure. “Anyone in particular?” 

“My father.” She speaks abruptly, emotionlessly, with only a hint of her rage showing. “Reaping Day.”

Taking his cue from her, Finnick answers with neutral regret at the state of the world, “He wouldn't be the first parent of a tribute.”

“He should have had a little more faith in me,” Johanna grumbles. Finnick can guess at her grief, but because she isn't quite showing it, he can't quite respond to it.

“Any other family to greet you when you came home?” he asks instead. He's disappointed but not surprised when she shakes her head. 

Her mother disappeared one night when she was just a baby. Taken by Peacekeepers, run off with someone, suicide...she'll never know. Her grandmother moved in to help her father with the baby. Her brother was so much older that their time in the house barely overlapped, and he moved away to get married by the time she was old enough to have memories. They were little more than strangers, and he died in an accident last year. 

She was close to her grandmother, but the old lady died in her sleep years ago. And that was all. Johanna was never the type to make friends easily. 

“You won't believe this,” Finnick tells her, “but neither am I. People think they want to get close, but the reality is never what they were expecting. Charisma isn't the same thing as being easy to get along with.” 

Johanna looks at him bluntly. “I believe it. Anyone at all?” 

“Mags,” he answers, and fills in some of the details. “And maybe, just maybe...Annie.” 

“How is she? Is she still-” No one ever finishes a sentence when asking about Annie. 

“She's fighting it with everything she has.” He's still in awe, watching her. Everything comes so easily to him that his younger self had no patience with the struggles of others. Only getting to know Annie brought him around to believing that effortless success at everything he puts his hand to is not the only thing that deserves respect. 

Johanna nods, not pressing further. “You weren't close to Conch, then?” 

“Oh, not at all. I've already talked more with you than I ever did with him. Here's the thing. I know I'm the most famous victor from Four and everyone assumes the tributes they see were mentored by me, but actually it turns out I'm pretty terrible at explaining anything I'm good at. Every time I try, all I can come up with is, 'You're doing it wrong. Just do it the way I do it.' And you know?” Finnick puts on his most innocent voice, lathering it in fake surprise. “It turns out that doesn't help!” 

Johanna actually laughs with him, the first time he's seen her laugh. “Who knew?” she teases. 

“Right, so the only thing I'm allowed to do is serve as a sparring partner for the advanced students, or the other teachers. I fail at demonstrating anything I do in slow motion, either, so it works like this: if you can keep up, you can practice on me, and maybe somebody who's not as good with a trident but better at explaining can watch us and tell you what you could be doing differently.” 

Having reassured Johanna that he doesn't hate her, Finnick doesn't tell her about the one moment when he and Conch bonded. Just as the boy was leaving to board the 'craft that would take him to the arena, getting last-minute encouragement from Mags and Donn, Conch turned suddenly to Finnick with a panicked look. _What have I done?_

Finnick, used to being hero-worshipped by the trainees, couldn't think of anything to say for that moment when it all becomes real, so he simply gave Conch the same look Rudder gave him on the same occasion: steady, reassuring, confident. _I believe in you._

It worked. Conch read what he needed in Finnick’s eyes and turned away, calmer again. That was the last he saw of anyone he knew. 

Now it's Johanna looking to Finnick for mentorship, and he hopes to do more for her. 

“I earned my victory, right?” Johanna sounds defensive. “They wouldn't have let just anyone win, not after last year.”

Finnick hides his surprise. Usually outliers need to make peace with the fact that they killed, and Careers with how they killed and whether they enjoyed it. Johanna sounds like she needs to hear that she did a good enough job killing.

“This year's victory had to come with blood and skill,” he tells her, hoping he's finding the right words. “We'd have been proud to have you hail from Four.”

Johanna's expression is an odd mixture of ferocity and gratitude. Finnick thinks he's never seen anyone so hungry for validation. “My district pretended like they gave a damn when I was reaped,” she finally confesses, “but they didn't want me back with blood on my hands.”

“District Four welcomes you back with blood on your hands.” Finnick knows he shouldn't speak for the whole district, but fuck that. The victors are their own district.

Finnick and Johanna are silent for some time, trying to decide if there's anything else to be said.

"So do we have to finish putting on our show?" She looks around at the other park goers: eating their own picnics, throwing balls to their dogs, watching their children climb trees. They can't have any more serious problems than deciding what to wear this evening. 

"Up to you. At this distance, we can make a pretty convincing act out of the most understated touch, if it looks tender." 

Johanna’s done worse to stay alive. "You'll have to do it, then. I only do ferocious." 

"If you castrate me, it will ruin the effect," Finnick tells her, laughing. 

"Not necessarily,” she retorts. “It'll still look like you brought me here hoping to get lucky, just that you moved too fast and didn't get what you were after." 

"Sheer would be proud. All right, here's the plan. I'm going to touch your hair with my fingertips, and then maybe your cheek, and then you're going to publicly castrate me. Deal?" 

Johanna tries to suppress her smile, and she does her part by leaning in and looking Finnick in the eye while he touches her face. They wait a few minutes after he withdraws his hand, then they rise. 

"We're done here?" she asks. 

"See you in a few months," Finnick tells her.

* * *

Keeping his promise, Finnick shows up at the Seventy-Second Hunger Games. Because he's so young, he and Mags decide that he can come with her and Donn without anyone questioning why District Four is breaking its usual two-mentor pattern. Officially, he's still in training on the finer points of being a mentor. 

In reality, he's there not so much to mentor their tributes as to make connections with the other districts, and to assess the potential of the victor as an ally. He still has hopes for Johanna. 

She's there in the viewing area, of course. Their eyes meet, and again her body language broadcasts hope and desperation, telling him she hasn't found her answer. He bears down on her, wearing his broadest and most charming smile, and she starts striding toward him in return. 

After initial pleasantries are exchanged, for which neither of them has much patience, they go and find a sofa to watch the opening of the Games. She's nineteen to his twenty-one, and no one will think it's weird if he sits with her instead of his own district. 

Johanna doesn't complain when Finnick stretches out his arm along the couch behind her, making it look to the casual observer like he's resting his arm on her shoulders. She tilts her head to allow him to whisper in her ear. 

"I don't have any easy answers for you," he begins, wanting to dash any false hopes right away, "but I found some things out that may be of use." 

"Go on." 

"I talked to the best healer in our district. I acted like I was asking on behalf of Octavius."

"Don't know him," Johanna says. 

"Thirty-Fifth victor," Finnick tells her. "Let's just say he's in pretty bad shape, and no one will question him having a problem with painkillers." He might, for all anyone knows, but Mags has given up on him after almost forty years, and Finnick's been instructed to spend his efforts on more productive avenues. 

"She said something very interesting, which is that it doesn't sound like addiction. If I may oversimplify, she said if you're trying to shake it and can't because the withdrawal symptoms are too rough, then it's physical dependence. If it's ruining your life and your friends are trying to get you to stop, and you're denying there's a problem, then it's addiction. I know that calling it a different name doesn't solve your problem," he says, holding up a hand to forestall protests, "but it gave me a starting point for what to look into." 

"I tried withdrawing gradually," she says. She takes a couple of deep breaths. "Didn't work." 

He wants to ask how she's holding up now, but she's prickly and proud, and he's stepping gingerly around her until they know each other better. 

"There are treatments, counter-drugs, that can help mask the symptoms while you're withdrawing, and that aren't themselves addictive. Obviously, though, you should be in the care of a trained professional when mixing these drugs and trying to phase off one." 

Johanna hunches over despondently and puts her elbows on her knees, before she remembers that they're supposed to be putting on an act. She sits up again before he has to put his hand on her back to cover for her. "Well, that's going to be difficult, seeing as how District Seven is useless, District Four is off limits for me, and the Capitol is out to get me." 

Finnick agrees. "That's why I said I didn't have an easy solution. I can, if you want, ask Mags. I haven't, because I thought this was enough for you to get started with, and I thought I'd let you make that call. She is safe," he adds gently. 

"I'll think about it," she says grudgingly. The music starts, heralding the beginning of this year's Games, and a hush falls over the viewing area. Johanna makes no move to leave the illusion that she's sitting in the crook of his arm, and so Finnick doesn't move either. The only mentoring she's getting is what little he can pass on from Mags in the time they have together. 

“I know you were in the hospital last year at this time,” Finnick comments during a lull in the action, “and didn't get to enjoy the post-Games festivities, but I can tell you they're worth sticking around for.” 

“Yeah?” Johanna prompts. She needs more to go on than a recommendation about parties from a notorious party boy. 

Tightening his lips in annoyance, Finnick leans in closer. “Look,” he mutters as quietly as he can, “I don't want to make promises and I can't go into specifics, but I will do my best to make them worth sticking around for.” 

“One week,” Johanna concedes. “Then I'm going home.” She always thought she never liked it in District Seven, but the Capitol is driving her away, foreign and hostile under all the glitter. There's more freedom to spend her days as she pleases here, but she's surrounded by enemies on all sides. 

On Johanna's last day before going home alone, without either of the tributes she escorted here, Finnick shows up again at her hotel. This time, she doesn't know he's coming and isn't waiting for him in the lobby. Instead, he rings the bell to her third-floor room. 

It unnerves Johanna that he could find her room number so easily, when she never gave even the name of the hotel to him, but she leaves with him anyway when she sees the picnic basket in his hand. 

Unlike last time, though, the conversation is so banal that she has a hard time believing that he's doing anything other than wasting her time. If there's some kind of code she's supposed to be deciphering, she's not getting it. They're sitting by a fountain, close enough to other groups of people to hear and be heard, so they couldn't speak plainly even if they didn't suspect bugs. 

By the end, Johanna's furious, even more at herself for falling for his bullshit than she is at him. The world is full of idiots; it's her fault for being desperate enough to believe one of them isn't what he seems. 

When Finnick leaves, he's in such a hurry—must have found her every bit as boring as she found him—that he forgets to take the basket. Johanna starts to call his name, but he's already so far away on those long legs that she'd look like she's throwing herself after someone who's rejected her. _No, thank you._

She thinks about leaving it herself in disgust, but some instinct that you don't leave food behind, even in the Capitol, makes her pick it up. 

The contents rattle when she lifts it, and Johanna gasps out loud. Now she wants to call his name again, but he's long gone, blending into the crowd, and it would ruin their act. 

The hardest thing she does is _not_ rush straight back to the hotel, but keep a poker face and act casual. She walks around the park, craning her neck to admire the buildings that stretch to the sky. On the way back, she lingers in front of shop windows where everything is for sale. 

Even in the hotel room, suspecting surveillance, she dumps the basket on the writing desk like it's not important, then takes a shower and changes clothes. Only when packing the last of her belongings to leave for home does she dump the contents of the basket into her suitcase, without inspecting them. She can see at a glance that it's medication. All painkillers, it looks like. Bottles, blister pads, and packets, of every description. 

On the train, Peacekeepers search through her belongings. They find her stash, but far from confiscating it, they only laugh. 

“Whatever,” one comments to the other. “She's not the first.” 

Johanna says nothing when one of the bottles gets pocketed on the sly, and they let her go with the rest. Her suspicions were right: they want to make this easy for her to get. 

Once at home, Johanna throws herself into the easy chair by the fireplace. Outside the window, the snow falls thickly, and a heavy blanket of fog enshrouds the peaks from view. She stares into the fireplace and thinks about starting a fire, but her back is shooting pain like lightning up through her neck, and central heating is easier. So Johanna gets up to set the heat higher than she normally would, as someone who prides herself on her tolerance to the cold. Central heating was the single most amazing feature of her new house in the Victors' Village. It made her feel silly that it took her weeks to find it after her first winter started. 

She hates that she needs heat to make her back feel better, and hates that she has to aggravate her back in order to turn on the heat. She's been taking her painkillers before bed, and facing the grogginess in the morning and the increasing pain throughout the day.

Back in the armchair with her feet up on a stool, hunting through the stash Finnick gave her, Johanna feels her frustration rising again. She's looking for something that will help with the pain without being so goddamn addictive, but she has no way of knowing what's what. He's given her everything, from morphling to the stuff she's currently on, both of which she knows are awful, to pills she's never heard of, nor knows the risks of. 

Johanna starts hurling each one to the ground as she reads the description. Painkiller, painkiller, painkiller. Heaven and hell in one little bottle. 

Then one, in a blue packet, she stops and retrieves from the floor as some of the words from the label belatedly penetrate her brain. This one is different. 

Reading more closely, Johanna realizes this is the one Finnick was telling her about, the one that helps mask the symptoms of withdrawal. The one you should have proper medical supervision with. 

_Fuck you, Snow, I'll doctor myself._

She hunts through the rest of her pile carefully. Yes, there are others. Inside the packets are detailed instructions for their use. 

That's it, then. The painkillers were included just as a cover for the pills they don't want her to have, to protect her from just such a search as she went through on the train leaving the Capitol. 

Johanna blinks back tears as she realizes that half her problem has been addressed. _Finnick, I needed something milder that will kill the pain without killing my brain._ The stuff she can get without a prescription here in Seven, the stuff she knows is safe, isn't doing the trick. But she never told him that, she realizes. Just that she was 'done' with the prescription she'd been given. And now, if she has anything on the floor in front of her feet that will serve the purpose, she doesn't know what it is, and she can't bring herself to try anything she doesn't recognize. 

Withdrawal it is, then. If she weren't a victor, she might be able to find someone she trusts in the district to help her with this, but she's too much of a celebrity. Trusting someone's competence is one thing, but she'd have to be sure they won't talk, and there's no one she trusts that much. Even Finnick...he may be useful, he may not talk, but she can't help wondering what he's going to expect from her in return. 

Nonetheless, she's going to keep playing along with their act in the Capitol, if only to fight back against Snow.

She doesn't go to the Seventy-Second Victory Ball, still too deep in the throes of her private battle, but when the snow finally starts melting, she begins a self-imposed regimen meant to push herself back into her old stamina. She starts with long walks and swims. While some of the trails terminate in electric fences, others go deep into the mountains without hindrance. Getting lost or attacked by bears are apparently big enough threats to deter most casual hikers. 

Johanna, though, has never been casual. She's fighting not to let the venom ruin her life. On days when she's simply not up to hiking, she drags herself to the hot springs and immerses herself. The heat helps. 

_'The heat helps,'_ she thinks sarcastically. _And I live in District Seven._

Johanna realizes then that she doesn't know which districts would be warmer, other than 'probably all of them.' How odd that she doesn't know. All she knows is that her home lies in the frozen forests of the north. Then she dismisses the thought, floating naked on her aching back. Hot drinks, hot soups, and hot springs become a way of her new, painkiller-free life, interspersed with punishing walks deep into the forests, welcoming the danger and the pain. 

When the Seventy-Third Hunger Games come around, she's ready for another trip to the Capitol, which is good because she has no choice. 

Having seen off her tributes, Johanna prowls the viewing area several times in frustration. Finally, hating that she has to do this, she approaches Mags and Donn on their couch. She stands and faces Mags. "Is Finnick here?" 

"He's not mentoring this year. He didn't tell me when he's planning on visiting the Capitol. Maybe for the Victory Ball." 

Damn. She doesn't need him, but she does owe him for setting her on the right track. That's all. She doesn't want to tell the only person who knows her story that she finally beat her problem; she wasn't looking forward to sitting and watching the Games with someone who not only doesn't seem bothered by her intensity but eggs her on; and she will not be a fucking cliché, thank you very much. Finnick can have the rest of Panem chasing after him without her help. And the companionship of watching the Games together is illusory. It's only a matter of time before one of his tributes is killing one of hers. She and Finnick got lucky last year. 

"If you see him before I do," Johanna begins, only because she owes him this much, "tell him—tell him everything turned out all right." 

"I will, with pleasure. Whatever it is that turned out, I'm glad." Mags pats the couch invitingly. "Have a seat, dear." Mags has a nice smile, but Johanna's still fighting to keep her secrets. 

Johanna shakes her head in refusal, but she finds herself reaching for a more polite excuse than she might with someone else. "I need to go keep my district on track. I don't think they could organize a Hunger Games without me." 

Mags' eyes twinkle when she mouths, _I know what you mean_. "Good luck, then." 

_May the odds be ever in your favor_ , Johanna thinks sardonically. 

The odds aren't in District Seven's favor, but Johanna keeps an eye on Four this year as she watches. If her tributes aren't going to win, and though she's given them the best preparation she could, she doesn't have a lot of delusions, she can root for Four. 

When all her hopes are dashed with a District Two victory, and she's thinking about leaving early, Finnick makes a surprise last-minute appearance in the Capitol. He's still interested in finding time alone with her, and Johanna's game as long as he keeps making himself useful. 

In their first meeting, she steers away from her constant temptation to return to painkillers, and tells him instead about the way she's started using her resources and free time as a victor to stay in shape and get formal training in using her axe in combat. She's a little worried about how this will look—when is she ever going to need to kill anyone again?—but Finnick tells her that a lot of the victors continue to pursue their training in order to keep their figures. 

Getting past her knee-jerk suspicion that this is a pass at her, Johanna realizes she's just been given a reason for her training, in case anyone asks. This must be what it's like to come from a district with actual mentors: knowing that everyone is out to get you even after you leave the arena, and not being alone in dealing with it. 

Again the resentment washes over her. She needs all her pride to keep herself from crying out _, Take me in, I don’t belong here!_

Instead, she asks coolly and professionally, “And to keep their legends?” 

Finnick confirms. “It becomes part of your identity, winning the Hunger Games. Continuing to practice, and getting even better at what you're famous for, is the most unremarkable thing you could be doing.” 

Johanna remembers Enobaria filing her teeth, and relaxes. No one suspects her of planning to rip out any more throats. 

Of course, Finnick continues, in Districts One, Two, and Four, there's a further motive for staying in form: training the latest round of Careers. 

Johanna listens with interest as he describes what the academy is like. 

“We don't have any details on what Districts One and Two do, but we've gathered they have the money for a full-time immersive program. We don't have anything like that. If you have the motivation to work a couple extra hours a day in addition to your regular job, we'll give you some training and some food. In return, we ask that you come back when you're an adult and help train the younger ones. We've got a lot of people with a little training, but few people with a lot of training, most of whom die in the arena.” 

As she listens to him—of course he wants to talk about training, he's the youngest victor ever and he can't stop talking about himself—she starts letting herself be encouraged by the mounting hints that the victors in District Four, like her, are planning ways to fight back. Under surveillance, Finnick has to speak so indirectly that Johanna's never fully sure she's not imagining what she wants to hear. 

But the conclusion she reaches, pacing the floor of her hotel room at night, is that as long as everything she says is equally deniable, passing him information can't hurt. He's either using his playboy reputation as the perfect cover for a revolution he's supporting, or he's killing time until the next party, and either way it won't hurt anything to talk to him. She does _not_ think he's working undercover for the Capitol, ferreting out signs of disaffection. That's just too convoluted an idea to take seriously. 

So the next time they meet, they make innocent small talk about their homes. Finnick starts by reminiscing about sunsets over the water in District Four, and about how warm the water is, year-round, even at night. They’re on the southwestern coast, then, Johanna deduces. Inside, she gives a small jump. 

It's not 'odd' she has no knowledge of the rest of the geography of her country. It's deliberate. Geography is useful information, and withholding it helps keeps the districts splintered, isolated. Keep the people in ignorance, and they can't rise united. 

Knowing this, District Four, meaning Mags, has been using the Victory Tours to build a growing sense of the relative position of various districts. That's not the same thing as a map, but it's more than Johanna can imagine anyone from Seven knowing. It didn't even occur to her to pay attention on her Victory Tour, and she was looking for ways to fight back! 

Now she knows, thanks to Finnick, that District Three borders Seven on the south. 

District Three is just up the coast from Four, where Finnick hears it’s slightly cooler, but not frigid like Johanna’s used to. 

Then Johanna realizes something else. If Four has been having to piece together this knowledge, with Finnick ranging the Capitol gathering information, that means the map is a closely guarded secret. It's not just the districts that are being kept in a state of ignorance. But nobody cares. In the Capitol, they have their entertainment, and in the districts, they're just trying to survive one more day. 

Someone needs to do something about this. 

Finnick, in turn, quizzes Johanna. He listens with interest to her talk about whatever comes to mind—apparently the whole existence of people whose job it is to guide logs down rivers is news to him–but he also starts asking very pointed questions. 

Because of the need for secrecy, it takes Johanna some time to figure out what he's getting at, but eventually she realizes he's especially interested in the location of roads. 

Gradually, she puts some pieces together. He’s interested in the roads that lead _out_ of District Seven. All that lumber is put on trains and trucks and carried to other districts. In particular, District Four. Obviously. She should have seen it sooner: those boats aren’t going to build themselves. Though she's surprised, after seeing the level of technology in the Capitol, the hovercrafts and trains and such, that boats are still made of wood. 

“If you're the navy,” Finnick explains, “you get fancy metal ships with electronic controls made in District Six. If you're a laborer in District Four...” He laughs. “Good luck.”

So if the infrastructure provided by the Capitol someday falls apart in a revolution, District Four is still going to need that lumber, and Four and Seven are going to have to know how to get it shipped to the right place themselves. 

Johanna's disappointed in her lack of specific knowledge of the border, but she immediately makes a vow to get it once she's home. She's lucky the Victors' Village is so far to the south. 

Before leaving the Capitol, she asks Finnick whether it's at all common for victors to go back to the jobs they held in their district before winning. 

He makes a noncommittal sound. “It's pretty rare, I think.” That's what Johanna was expecting, as the jobs are usually dangerous and unpleasant, but it's still disappointing to hear. 

“But,” he continues, “I've been doing it for years. I still spend a lot of time on the water every week. I don't need the money, so I can choose my own hours, and I can pitch in a hand wherever I feel like it. I've tried my hand at every job I could find.” 

_Oh, thank you, thank you. Why are you so useful—why can't anyone in my district be useful?_

Thinking quickly, Johanna describes the isolation of her village, the lack of entertainment options...”It's all very well and good not to work when you're in the Capitol, but there's nothing to do where I live. I can't hike all day every day. I have no family, there's only one other person living in the Village, I'm convinced he won by a fluke, and I don't like him.” 

“Then I would say you have every reason to pass the time by meeting new people and seeing new things.” 

Armed with that excuse, Johanna sets off to gain information when she's back home. “Meeting new people” probably works better for someone like Finnick, but Johanna can act when she needs to. She just had no one to tell her that dropping her act the moment she left the arena wasn't safe. Now adopting a more sociable act, she moves south and starts working with the transportation crews at the border. 

Johanna works when she can, and when she can't, she has a bed of her own and some privacy for when her back is on fire and she can't do anything but lie there and resent the hell out of the Scorpio venom. She never used to get tired. Now if she pushes herself, she's likely to pay for it. But she pushes, and she hides her pain as best she can. If you're a man and you're tired, it's because you worked hard. If she's tired, it's because women are weak. 

So focused is Johanna on her goals that it comes as a surprise when her express purpose of “meeting people” is unanimously interpreted with one meaning: looking for a husband. It's hard to find a minute alone, with everyone trying to get their bid in. 

In hindsight, this should have been obvious. She's not used to being a good catch, but she's nineteen, wealthy, and a celebrity. Suddenly, she's the best catch in the district. 

This, more than anything, convinces her that Finnick is almost certainly working undercover. Is he also interested in making a good catch in the Capitol? Quite possibly. The two goals aren't mutually exclusive. Is he running up the tally of notches in his belt as high as possible for the fun of it? Again, could be. 

But is he getting a lot of interesting information along the way? It's almost impossible not to. People will tell you _anything_ when they're trying to impress you. 

Johanna doesn't adopt his strategy of directly encouraging attention. She keeps her tongue as sharp as ever, and anyone who dares to touch her gets the blunt end of whatever tool she's wielding, frequently a shovel in these days. 

But neither does she burn all her bridges. “I want an easy fuck, I can get it any time I want in the Capitol, and you'll never live up to that competition,” she tells them, haughty as only she can be. “Concentrate on being marriageable.” 

Thus her supposed semi-public fling with Finnick finally pays off to _her_ benefit. Everyone here has to concede that she can do better than them for casual flings, and she doesn't lose her credibility of wanting a husband just because she's playing hard to get. 

Unlike Finnick, Johanna wants to gather her intelligence not from people but from her surroundings. She doesn't like people, and she doesn't like talking to people. They're mostly idiots. She wants to know where the roads are. 

To her dismay, she finds that, compared to the Victors' Village, “taking a long walk” is more suspicious down here, where she gets questioned and deterred by Peacekeepers more often than she would like. 

“You spent the day shoveling eight feet of snow off the roads, and you need more exercise?” one asks dubiously. 

At the same time, it's hard to get away from camp free of unwanted male attention. Finally, Johanna yields to the inevitable. The least suspicious way of taking long walks and scouting out the land is to let one of her suitors come with her. If she's looking for a husband, and she's out walking with a man, she doesn't have to explain herself at all. 

_But no touching!_ she promises herself. Finnick can sell his body if he's that interested in meeting people. She's just after a mental map of the roads. She makes a particular point of noting abandoned roads that are not maintained by the Capitol. They probably still go somewhere, and while it might take some work to clear them, they're less likely to be manned by military forces and shut down in the event of an emergency. If she can't get lumber through a Capitol blockade, maybe she can get it around. 

On her walks, she develops a reputation for preferring the “strong, silent” type as companions. There's no shortage of those around here, and at least if they don't say much, they're not calling attention to their brainlessness. Plus, the silence gives her the opportunity to think. 

While walking, keeping her eyes open for anything that might constitute useful information in the event of an organized rebellion, Johanna spends a lot of time going over every word Finnick said, straining to read between the lines. 

It's a shame they have so little time to share information before they have to return to their respective homes. Johanna's willing to put in the time in the Capitol now that she's getting something done there. She even finds herself missing having an ally when she's back home. She's used to being alone, but Finnick has given her a glimpse into a world where other people are like her, intense and angry, banding together to fight back. 

If she's not imagining it, of course. Finnick's specialty is looking at you like you're the one person in the world who has what he needs, and he's finally found you. How many women in the Capitol still think he’s going to marry them as soon as he grows up enough to settle down? 

But she wouldn't put it past District Four to be the one place a rebellion could be organized. They're large and rather well off, but they lack the close ties to the Capitol that One and Two have. They don't glorify the Games, and they've had to send their share of underfed children into the arena to die when they couldn't get a volunteer. Just look at Annie Cresta, the biggest fluke victor in years.  

Yes, they train Careers, but if there'd been an academy in Seven, Johanna would have trained. She doesn't want to die. Even now, she's training in case it comes to fighting- 

_Holy shit holy shit holy shit._

“We have a lot of people with a little training,” Finnick's voice says in her memory. A lot of people who wanted a bit of extra food as a kid, a lot of people who didn't volunteer, a lot of people who agreed to come back as an adult and _keep training._

A lot of people who are going to know how to use a weapon if it comes to fighting. 

Johanna picks up her speed, half running in her excitement. Beside her, her companion has to lengthen his stride to keep up. Flushed, she doesn't even feel the cold any more. Suddenly, she wants this like other people want sex. 

How long have they been planning this? If being a playboy is the perfect cover for getting allies like her and getting secrets out of the women of the Capitol, a Career academy is the perfect cover for raising a _fucking_ _militia_. 

She needs to start an academy! Filled with people, she realizes, coming down with a jolt from her high. People that she doesn't like, doesn't want to teach, and doesn't have the resources for anyway. 

Damn it. Fine, she needs to move to Four, be part of this army. Mags is a fucking genius. She must have been planning this for fifty years. 

_How on earth has she done it_? Johanna wonders. _If_ _I_ _'_ _d been planning a rebellion for that long, there would have been explosions, fire, and bloodshed decades ago._   

But Mags, Finnick told her on one of their picnics, is just old enough to remember the first rebellion ending in bloody defeat, and more than old enough to have heard the stories from the survivors of the generation who fought it. Under surveillance, Finnick could talk about how terrible the first rebellion was, implying that the districts learned their lesson and would never consider trying it again. 

Johanna, on the other hand, took Finnick's little history lesson as he intended it, to mean that Mags knows what went wrong and is determined to avoid those mistakes this time around.  

That's still a lot of patience, and to plan all this under such surveillance. She needs to meet Mags, shake her hand. 

Forget meeting Mags, she needs to move to Four. That's home, that's where she belongs. She could attend the academy under guise of helping the teenagers, get real training year-round.  

Johanna thinks hard. 

It's almost impossible to get permission to even enter another district. 

The Victory Tour is a one-time event that takes place under strict Capitol control. 

Then, ever since she joined the transportation crew, Johanna's been trying to drive a train south of the border, but even her victor status hasn't been able to get her on the list of people authorized to leave Seven. Even if she were, she'd only be allowed to drive it over the border to the next depot, then pass it off to someone there and turn around and drive another train over the border back into Seven. Same with the trucks. 

Yet there is one other way. A few Hunger Games victors have done it. 

Glancing cunningly at the man walking next to her, whose name she's already forgotten, she thinks, _You want a marriage of convenience? Maybe so do I._

Even if she hadn't sworn to die before she stoops to chasing Finnick in reality, she couldn't marry the man she's been working undercover with in the Capitol. Either he's got to keep himself available for his ulterior purposes, or he's too frivolous to settle down. Out of the running no matter what. 

But there are other victors in Four. Donn’s older than the hills, married with children and grandchildren. Brine...well, maybe Mags makes a practice of sending her victors into the Capitol as playboy spies. Brine’s like a less interesting, watered-down version of Finnick. And Octavius is out of the question. Johanna’s done her research. But Rudder... 

According to Finnick, Rudder’s the only victor capable of proper weapons teaching, which is why they need so many of the former trainees to donate their time at the academy. So Rudder’s probably leading this militia. And according to her own gut feeling at her Victory Ball, he’s not interested in women. That might make him the perfect husband for her, who’s so far discovered no interest in anyone, of any gender. It wouldn't matter that he's old enough to be her father. 

Johanna has a plan. Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, meet Mags properly this time. Pass on a road map to Finnick. Get him to pass her message to Rudder. Seventy-Fourth Victory Ball, talk to Rudder. And if that doesn't pan out, start the damn academy here. She's going to be ready when war comes. 

_Watch me, Dad._


	5. Finnick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been completely rewritten since the fic was originally posted in 2015. If you read it before June 10, 2017, you'll want to reread.

President Snow and Finnick Odair have a dance they perform. The cameras make love to them, the two most recognizable faces in Panem, but no one can see their dance.

They're all smiles and affability, President Snow benevolent, Finnick flattered to have such an interest taken in him.

In the course of a brief exchange, perhaps, President Snow will drop a name of some prominent politician or star, and Finnick will take no notice, but soon, perhaps even the next day, Finnick's name will be linked with hers, or his.

Mags' name has never crossed President Snow's lips in these exchanges, nor Annie's when she came along a few years later. Forewarned by the same Mags, a fourteen-year-old Finnick eagerly embraced the Presidential "suggestion" that he demonstrate appropriate gratitude to his sponsors.

Let the other desirable victors fight, be beaten down, lose loved ones. Finnick is like water. He follows the path of least resistance, but invisibly he wears down everything as he goes, irresistible as the tide.

Let other victors writhe in humiliation, hate their lives and themselves, drown in chemical solace, and dream of ending it all. Finnick dreams of drawing the dance out as long as possible.

Other victors are met with overt threats, strict schedules, appointments, and armed escorts to their clients, who may be chosen for their brutality. Other victors have drugs forced on them when they can't get it up.

Finnick has flexibility. Following the rules to the letter keeps his audience feeling safe, but leaving them wondering what he’ll do next keeps them spellbound. Finnick not only cooperates. He enhances.

Diligently working off the list of names bestowed on him the night before his Victory Tour, Finnick adds in partners of his own choice. He seduces them all without effort: those he selected, those who sponsored him, and those who have solicited the President for the opportunity to bed him or—more costly—be seen in public with him. He lavishes them with their every desire, free with his favors and genuine in his enthusiasm. When he's not in the mood, he has techniques that are better than drugs, and there are never any complaints about his performance.

And all the while, out of the corner of his eye, he watches his true partner in this dance, whose eye lurks in every camera.

* * *

Snow too dances his own measure. He has never once used more force than necessary to ensure cooperation. He is not a man to kill a fly with a nuclear bomb, when he can vivisect a subject to find out what makes them tick.

He still chuckles inwardly over threatening Cashmere and Gloss with nothing more than telling the other what a slut they are, to turn them into sluts. Through the hidden cameras, Snow watches Gloss cut himself at night and silently let his stylists remake him the next day. It's ever so much easier when they blame themselves, so tiresome when they rage at him.

For Finnick, he'd planned to start by dropping a man's name, watching him stumble and stutter, and letting the corner of his own lip curve into a hint of a smile. But the little nymphomaniac beat him to it.

Orgies of sex, like food, are spontaneous in certain circles. Finnick was, in hindsight, always going to find his way into that lifestyle before a surprise could be orchestrated.

Pain comes next. President Snow beats Finnick to this one, but Finnick shows every sign of enjoying it just as much, even without warning. He compares the experience to the arena, and he asks the woman to recreate his famous scars, long gone in a remake, so they can relive his Hunger Games together.

Not pain, then. Humiliation, perhaps. Surely, for the biggest egomaniac in Panem, that will be the breaking point. But Finnick writhes in exultation at Marius' feet. Is he lying when he says afterward that the Capitol always holds new delights for him?

Maybe not; who in the Capitol isn't trying to spice up their sexual encounters with sheer novelty?

Finnick insists on having cameras and mirrors present at every opportunity and watching himself afterward, just as willing to offer commentary on this as on his Games, which is a popular pastime with some of his lovers. No making _him_ squirm by showing him a clip in a very sedate parlor, alone with the President and a few of his aides.

Because there are tapes of Finnick's every move in bed. He may not know it, but he acts like he knows it. Or maybe he's so used to being on camera that the effort to look attractive from every angle has become second nature.

Snow spends as many hours on these tapes as he spends on the Hunger Games. He scrutinizes Finnick's every move, looking for a flinch, a sign of discomfort, even a wavering of the smile.

There must be some way to break him so that he blames himself and not the Capitol.

Accusing her of breaking the rules is what he got Cashmere with, the girl who liked sex as much as Finnick and had just as strong a drive to cooperate. But Finnick always looks at the President with wide eyes and has a plausible explanation every time he's reprimanded.

The first time, he tried claiming he misunderstood the rules, looking utterly baffled when they were explained.

_“You wanted me to sleep with the sponsors who donated the most first?”_

_“I instructed you to work your way through the list in order,” President Snow reminded him, impatiently. No one ever said these pretty killers were bright, but this is ridiculous._

_“And I have, sir! Of course. I never imagined the richest sponsors would think a fourteen-year-old virgin was worth what they paid for. I thought I was supposed to work my way up, gain more experience, learn the ways of the Capitol, so they could get their money's worth. Every few months I'm taller, better looking, more muscle. No more gawky amateur.”_

If Finnick was ever gawky, Snow will eat his rose, thorns and all, but Finnick has a point. The mystique of virginity aside, he's certainly filling out, and he's getting more self-assured by the season. 

Snow contemplated the cost of letting the boy get away with what must be a lie before deciding that, curse him, he was right. He's living up to his potential, and he's proving to be desirable as an escort even more than a prostitute. His admirers don't just want to take him in bed, they want to take him out, where everyone can see him.

And Snow needs that spectacle. He needs the boy on camera, making appearances, making everyone jealous of his latest partner. While they're chasing Finnick, they're not thinking about taxes or policies.

As long as Finnick's cooperative, if he's willing to drag out their interest over more than one season, that works to Snow's benefit.

And cooperative he is. Even when Snow has to call him on the carpet again, he's got an explanation ready. No misunderstanding; this time, he claims he knows what he's doing.

_“They've decided that they're willing to wait more than a year for you, though you should be grateful for the exception-”_

_“Oh, and I am, sir! Most grateful.”_

_“But I'm afraid that sleeping with names that aren't on your list is hurting your cause. If your body isn't a reward for their good behavior, then they're losing their incentive.”_

_“Are they?” Finnick's eyes flew open in dismay. “Donn and Mags said sponsorship numbers for Four were better than ever. Cassiana said she and all her friends are contributing to Four's fund now, and they've never done that before.”_

_As usual, this picture of youthful innocence had Snow trapped. Because it was true. On the day he was crowned, a kid from Four became the most popular thing to come out of the districts since One's gems._

_“I've been trying to use my body as bait and reward,” Finnick explained without a trace of shame, “lure in the ones who don't know what they're missing. I'm a fisherman, you see. But if I've been getting it wrong, I count on you to tell me what to do.”_

_Finnick's always said the right thing, never had to be taught a lesson about how the world doesn't revolve around him. Unusual, for an arrogant Career turned celebrity overnight._

_“Bait is all very well, but it hasn't escaped my attention that you always start the season off with someone you picked yourself.” President Snow has always known how to keep a threat sounding affable._

_“Yes, sir, and I wish I could do better, but every season I arrive behind on gossip, fashions, and the social ladder. I can't afford to make mistakes, not with the ones who are paying, so I have to catch up with someone who doesn't matter as much.”_

_President Snow plucked a rose from his lapel, savoring its scent. “Would you prefer to spend the whole year in the Capitol?” A dangerous question._

_Finnick's face lit up at first, but then he grew more serious, though a little mischievous light still danced behind his eyes. “Well, sir, I'd love to, of course, but I didn't think it was important what I prefer. I think what they really love is knowing they can have me, but not knowing when. It’s kept the chase exciting all these years. Do you think having access to me year round would get boring for them?”_

Snow had been just about to tell Finnick he wasn't paid for thinking, when Finnick had the good sense to defer to his opinion. And his opinion, to his annoyance, is that Finnick was right. The boy has some natural instinct for keeping people panting after him, leaving them indulgent even when he has to disappoint them in the end. He provides everything he's asked for and more, which is unusual.

Unusual enough that President Snow, who needs to stay in power, will let Finnick continue carrying out the art of seduction his way. After all, the President tells Beetee what to build, not how to build it. And Finnick seems to have his own brand of genius.

Yet he still needs a way to break Finnick down. A hold to have over him, just in case.

He's never been certain how much of Finnick's professed love for his district, the ocean, some of the other victors, is just ingratiating himself, the way he professes undying love for each client he sells himself to, or whether he means it. Would a forced relocation to the Capitol be punishment or reward?

Snow will stay his hand until he's certain. Meanwhile, he continues his search.

Only one of his advisors dares to question whether a different tactic, one that has worked so well on one of the other victors, might be a better punishment for Finnick Odair.

Snow wonders whether his staff was always this dense, or whether it really has gotten worse over the years.

"If I wanted to punish the boy, I could have him shot in the head. Then he would be of no use to me whatsoever. If you want to make someone a tool, you break them from the inside out. But you break them in a way that leaves them useful to you.”

President Snow's never approved of waste, which is why he leaves the crippled victors alone. Why break something that's already broken? As well kick down an open door.

“I'm sure you're familiar with the ways of taming a populace.” Snow ticks them off carefully on his fingers. "Intimidation is only the most obvious. Surveillance. Bread. Circuses. Finnick is a circus, a spectacle. He's a tool, nothing more.”

But Snow approves of not leaving anything to chance, and there's always a chance Finnick's celebrity will go to his head one day.

On that day, Snow wants to have the upper hand.

So he'll keep watching the tapes, as Finnick moves from lover to lover.

* * *

“Oh, my,” Donna purrs. “I must say, I expected-”

She interrupts herself with a gasp, because Finnick is _wicked_ with that tongue. Usually they're thrashing in panic by now, while she holds their heads under the bathwater and tells them to keep servicing her. But by the gilt clock hanging over the towel rack, he's gone longer than anyone else with no signs of anything but pleasure.

Well, she expected that much, as she was trying to tell him. But that pain tolerance is something else. He should be falling apart, yet he's only twitching a bit, and he hasn't lost any of his passion. Well, some. She laughs to herself. But who can mind when he knows how to use his tongue like that?

He's gotten her more worked up tonight than she thought possible, and she doesn't manage any more coherent sentences. Donna grabs hard onto that solid, bloody shoulder, digging into his open wounds with her manicured fingernails while she arches toward his mouth.

As the afterglow descends on her, she slides down into the hot water, basking in the scent of the candles, the caresses of the pinkening bubbles on her skin, and the softness of the pillow beneath her neck. She can barely hear the sound of him hyperventilating over the pounding in her ears.

Finally, she comes to, and gets a good look at her latest boytoy. Finnick is shivering even in the heat, and he's got that telltale wild look in his eyes that she knows so well.

That's good, she doesn't want to feel like she didn't affect him at all.

“Turn around, let me look at you,” she orders.

Obediently, Finnick turns his back to her, and she surveys it approvingly. Blood, candle wax, burn marks...everything in place. And it'll all be remade without a mark tomorrow morning.

She didn't touch his pretty face, though. It's too perfect the way it is. And waterproof makeup may be the best invention ever.

Other, maybe, than the expensive box sitting on the shelf by the tub. The one she can use to revive a drowning client. It's always a pain when they black out without fighting—fighting is half the fun. But Finnick was completely fun, even without the panic.

Donna claps her hands in delight, and Finnick faces her again.

“Did I do good, did I do good?” Finnick glows like a puppy wanting attention for performing its newest trick, making her laugh.

“Unmatched performance,” she praises whole-heartedly. “The Avoxes naturally have no stamina to speak of, but you did better than even the other victors I've had. You actually acted like you wanted to be here.”

“Where else would I want to be?” Finnick looks around the luxuriant bathroom, taking in the giant marble tub, set deep in the floor and wide enough to swim in. The jasmine candles on every shelf and lining the floor on all four sides of the tub, their scent permeating the air. Two walls shelved with the best of every product for sale. 

Looking her collection over, Donna gestures to an ostrich feather fan. It's hot in here. Finnick obediently fetches it and starts fanning her with it, looking up at her adoringly with those green eyes under the silver eyeshadow. His hand only shakes a little. “You were so deliciously...masterful.”

“You weren't bad yourself.” She flutters it back under his chin for a moment. “What are you, sixteen?”

“Officially,” Finnick says coyly, inviting her to ask.

She indulges him, because he really did please her. “Officially?”

“We celebrate my birthday a month early, just before the Victory Tour. Otherwise it'd be off-season, and you know no one in Four knows how to throw a real party.”

“Oh, my, I'm robbing the cradle,” she teases. “I'll be four times that soon.”

He flutters his eyelashes at her. “Nooo. Tell me you couldn't tell!”

Donna laughs again. He's supposed to tell her that he couldn't tell how old she was, that he doesn't believe her. But he's a crazily endearing egomaniac. “You've got a lot of experience for a fifteen-year-old. And a lot of stamina. Shouldn't you have passed out by now?”

“Baby, I can go all night,” Finnick boasts.

But he's starting to slur, and she has to admit she's tired herself. “It'll be morning soon. Dry yourself off and join me in bed.”

“The towels are red,” Finnick exclaims admiringly, reaching for one. “You think of everything.”

She does, and she sees everything, including the way he closes his eyes to control the wince. Donna's been doing this for so long she's got everything down to a tee, leaving her grateful to him for surprising her without breaking the pattern. What an enchanting child.

In her boudoir, she slips into a negligee and a soft robe, but keeps him bare and enjoys the involuntary ripple of gooseflesh that rises the moment he steps outside the sultry bathroom.

While she has her back turned, he starts admiring her jewelry boxes. Without asking, he opens them and begins admiring the contents. Donna's carefully positioned herself so she can watch him through the mirror in front of her.

“This one matches my eyes.” He holds up an emerald necklace and poses with it in front of his chest.

Donna waves a careless hand in his direction. “Oh, take it, if you like. Help yourself, in fact.” The really valuable stuff is locked in a safe. “You did good.”

“You're too kind to me,” he remembers to protest, but greed overcomes him, and he's soon rifling through the drawers.

She keeps half an ear cocked while she dries and brushes her hair for bed, and it's a while before she realizes which drawer he's in. “Not that one, pretty, it's not jewelry.”

Obedient as always, Finnick closes it, but he winks salaciously. “Love notes from your other admirers?”

“Of course. I have to keep them somewhere. Oh, go ahead and read. It won't hurt for you to have something to live up to. You can read, right?”

“Slowly,” Finnick admits, with an unabashed grin. “I had other priorities.”

“I'm sure you did.” She laughs indulgently, then listens to him read aloud while she finishes her toiletry. Phrases that were trite on paper trip off his lips like poetry, almost making her wish she could keep him.

“I don't know that there's a way for me to get love letters to you once I'm back in District Four,” Finnick realizes, suddenly concerned. She loves him flighty and silly, but serious is tugging at her nonexistent heartstrings. “Will I be able to call you?”

 _He's never asked anyone this before._ That's...that's something. Donna's not the youngest or prettiest, and her tastes have gotten more extreme with age, so she's not usually the favorite. It doesn't matter, since she's got more than enough money to get her needs met with the cream of the crop, but finding someone with tastes matching hers is not to be sneezed at.

“I don't know just how you call from the districts into the Capitol, either. I've heard something about a code that head Peacekeepers are entrusted with. I'll find out,” she promises him. “Discreetly.”

“It'll be our little secret,” he promises back, brightening again.

Then she comes over to inspect him.

“Oh, dear, you silly boy, you missed a spot.” Callously, Donna begins peeling off the wax deposits she left there earlier.

“I did not!” Finnick protests, indignantly, spinning on his heel and showing off his body. He's not quite grown into it yet, but she can see the promise of magnificence. “I thought you'd want to admire your handiwork.”

“You!” Donna smacks him, but she's laughing and it's affectionate. “You're incorrigible. Get into bed and let me admire you there.”

Finnick lets her pick the wax from his skin tamely enough, but later, when he thinks she's sleeping—she has this step down too—she feels the ripples in the mattress as he shakes, hard.

 _That's right, darling._ She likes them with stamina, not invincible.

* * *

Finnick's not only a slut. He's a helpless slut, and it's doing things to Scarlet that she never dreamed of. She managed to capture his attention enough to get him into an alcove with her, but holding his attention is another matter. They're only flirting, nothing too demanding, but his eyes are roaming her body, and he keeps getting distracted from the conversation every time they snag on something he likes.

“I knew you were victor material, I saw it immediately-” she's telling him enthusiastically, and she could be saying that she just attended a symphony on hedgehogs for all the throaty “Uh huh” she's getting, as he stares at the slit running up the side of her gown.

Whenever someone approaches, which is often—Finnick Odair does not get left alone at parties—his mind wanders again as he follows them with his gaze. Scarlet should be jealous, and she was worried at first, but so far she's always been able to bring him back with a hand on his thigh or lips teasing his jaw, and so she's allowed herself to relax and anticipate what all this means for her.

If he's this easy out of bed, what _won't_ he let her do in it?

“You were positively dreamy when the trident came down and you started twirling it and showing off your moves. What were you thinking?”

“You're so amazing,” Finnick murmurs, nuzzling around her ear. Scarlet doesn't even care if he heard the question or not. She's going to be wet before they leave for her place if he keeps making that deep vibrating moan against her skin. She just needs to keep him focused on her for a little while longer...

You don't usually have to work this hard for a victor who owes this much to sponsors, but then there's never been one quite so much in demand. And everyone, positively _everyone_ agrees Finnick is worth waiting for. If she can catch him tonight, she's glad she didn't get the fourteen-year-old who didn't know his way around.

When she finally gets to take him home, Scarlet has to fight to keep her cool. She wants to punish him for making her wait so long, and so she makes him wait.

She starts him stripping for her while she tells him all the delightful plans she has for him. He obeys her every word, but he spices it up with bedroom eyes and flamboyant style. 

Compliant as always, Finnick gives the most gratifying whimpers she's ever heard when she starts him touching her, forbidding him to touch himself until she's good and ready.

She adores playing with that space between desire and satisfaction, stoking the flame ever higher with her tease and deny, deny and promise.

For a creature as much at the mercy of lust as this boy, this has to be torture.

He licks his lips, panting, but frozen in place until she releases him. Scarlet doesn't know how in the world he can be controlling that level of desire, and then she realizes—he's not controlling it, she is.

She didn't know it was possible to be as turned on as she is right now.

She draws it out so long she ends up ringing for an Avox and ordering refreshments. Then she dismisses the servant and makes Finnick kneel, naked and rock-hard, at the side of her bed, holding up the tray.

While he kneels, like a living, breathing statue, Scarlet enjoys a leisurely repast of bread, soft cheeses, strawberries and cream, and wine. Then she indulges Finnick with a few berries, because there's nothing worse than a growling stomach to take her out of the mood.

With his hands occupied with the tray, Scarlett pops the berries directly into his mouth. Finnick sucks greedily at her fingers, hungrier for her than the food. 

A trickle of juice runs down his chin, and Scarlet is so hypnotized that, tease or not, she has to lean over and lick it away. It's as sweet as she could have hoped for.

Just then, the answering machine beeps. Scarlet groans, and she's reaching for the remote to turn it off, but then Cornelia's voice comes through, urgent and excited. “Scarlet? Are you home? You wouldn't believe what I have to tell you!”

Scarlet hesitates. She's only a little curious about her friend's news at a time like this, but it's Cornelia, and they share everything. The temptation to show off is just too irresistible. She thumbs the remote, and Cornelia's face pops up on the screen.

“Scarlet, I just got back from Minister Cunningham's party, and-” Cornelia trips over her tongue, and her eyes bug out. “Is that who I think it is?!”

“What, you don't recognize him naked?” Scarlet smirks.

“Oh my god, congratulations! That's almost more exciting than my news!”

She pouts exaggeratedly. “What do you mean, almost?”

“Well, that's what I called to tell you! Remember the contract my husband was competing for? And how many palms he was having to gre-”

Mid-sentence, Cornelia hesitates. Her eyes flicker to Scarlet's side, and it takes Scarlet a moment to realize what the problem is.

“Oh, don't mind him. Nothing going on upstairs there. Lights are on but nobody's home.”

“Only the downstairs is occupied?” Cornelia quips.

“The downstairs is positively packed,” Scarlet says appreciatively, trailing her fingertips along the inside of his thigh. She grins wickedly at the whimper that escapes him. “Go on.”

He twitches, too well-behaved to start thrusting into her hand, though he clearly wants to.

Now Cornelia's distracted from her news. “So what's he like? Worth what you paid?”

Scarlet winks. “Come over and find out!”

“Tempting.” Cornelia surveys the body stretched out next to Scarlet and licks her lips. “He wouldn't mind being shared?”

“Pretty boy just needs a place to put it, doesn't care where,” Scarlet boasts, caressing Finnick, and he moans in agreement.

Cornelia makes an appreciative sound of her own. “I'll be right over.”

“He's more than worth it,” Scarlet confesses, unable to resist. “He's got such a crazy submissive streak, you wouldn't believe it. He can't do anything unless you let him, but he needs it so much he's practically crying.”

She would have thought that level of submission would be boring, forcing her to come up with all the ideas, but Finnick's got such a wicked gleam in his eye it inspires her.

“Does he beg prettily?”

“He's the prettiest. We've been here all night, and I wish I could keep him longer, but...I don't think he has that kind of attention span.” Scarlet feels a twinge of sadness at those words, but also triumph. The game wouldn't be nearly as much fun if he were capable of being serious.

“Do you get to take him out at all, or is it just the one night?”

“Ooh, good question.” Scarlet looks at his spread out form speculatively. “I paid enough. Surely I get to show him off.”

At the uncertain tone in her voice, Finnick gives her an eager look. She'll take that as a yes.

“Your mother's emeralds-” Cornelia reminds her.

“Oh, you're right. Time to break out the emeralds.” 

Tomorrow is going to be just as amazing as tonight.

* * *

Finnick tries so hard to please her and not let on how needy he is that it breaks Flavia's heart. He started the night kneeling at the end of the bed and giving her the best footrub of her life, and it only got better from there.

He's so skilled that Flavia allowed herself to get caught up in the moment, and a long time passed before she even remembered why she brought him here. 

Everyone snatches him up, takes what they want from his sensational body, and passes him on to the next taker, without ever thinking how much he needs rescuing.

Flavia runs her fingers gently along his chest. _Anyone else, darling, but not you._ He's too perfect, too precious for treatment like that.

He never complains about what it's like back home. “Sooo brave,” she croons. But sometimes a little sadness creeps into his eyes when he talks about it.

He wants so badly to belong here, and he doesn't like to admit when the little things she takes for granted are unfamiliar, from the way you're supposed to ignore servants, to the gossip that makes life worth living.

But here he is, worshiping her with his body and his words, and every time she tries to shush him, he can't stay quiet for more than a minute before he's praising her again, offering her the world, glorying in the privilege of being here.

Unable to stand it any more, Flavia makes him lie still while she gets up and rummages through her drawers. She finds what she's looking for, and expertly prepares the injection.

“Here, this will help you relax. Like you deserve.”

It's gratifying when Finnick tries to get out of taking it. Protesting that he wants to remember everything about tonight, that he wants to be at the top of his game for her...his heart-warming devotion only makes her more determined to administer it. 

She's had enough of poetry recited while he sits at her feet and adores her, enough of him servicing her—Flavia wants to pet him and play with him without that give and take. She wants him boneless, limp, at her mercy. She wants him to know he doesn't have to please her, that just being here is pleasure enough.

No playboy should have to be this good in bed. All the ones she knows go through life taking what they want, heedless of whether anyone else likes it. This one has a reputation for skill as much as promiscuity, and that has to mean something.

Only Flavia's figured out what. The boy is desperate, and there's only one thing he can be this desperate for.

Only when she promises that it'll leave his mind clear does he stop pushing futilely at her hands, wanting and not wanting.

“There, there,” she reassures him as she empties the syringe into his arm. “Tonight is going to be sublime.”

When it takes effect, he can only lie motionless, barely able to follow her with his eyes.

“Perfect,” she declares. Now she can lie beside him and pet and caress to her heart's content, without him trying to work out what she wants and guide the encounter.

It loosens her tongue, knowing he can't answer.

“There, I know. Sweet boy. Sweet, precious boy. You're not alone now. I won't let you go. I've heard the stories, how you please everyone, and you can't say no. I know you can't help it, sweet. But it's all right now. You belong to me.”

She gets herself more and more worked up, until at last she wraps her legs around his and presses down hard, while she starts working herself with her fingers.

Yes, Finnick has better ways of pleasing a woman. Everyone knows that. But this is special. The perfect trust in his eyes, his total dependence on her...no one's ever had those before.

When she's had her way with him, Flavia feels like she took a shot of the same paralytic she gave him. She drops her head, exhausted, on the pillow beside him, and exults. His skin is warm against hers, and she drapes herself over it lovingly.

Ever so slowly, his body starts to return to his control. Flavia feels her heart skip a beat at his sluggish, clumsy motions as she coaxes his head onto her breasts. “Sweet boy. You never have to leave, I promise. And anything you need to know about the Capitol, I'll tell you. In a few minutes you'll be able to talk again, and you can ask me anything. Nothing to be ashamed of, we all know you belong here. It's only a matter of time before no one will be able to tell you weren't born a Capitolite.”

“Really?” This one, slurred word is all his throat can manage, but the look of pathetic gratitude in his glowing eyes speaks volumes. _You'd do that for me?_

“Promise. It'll be our little secret.”

* * *

Zenobius looks approvingly at the mirrors lining the walls, reflecting the dancing, laughing, feasting partygoers. If you're going to throw a shindig like this, invite half the city, there's nothing wrong with helping your guests spot celebrities passing behind them.

And it doesn't hurt to be able to check your outfit, be sure you're making the right impression. Zenobius admires his own reflection: dark skin tattooed and pierced, gold sequins, silken shirt. He shifts position just a little to check that his skin-tight leggings are showing his calves to best effect.

The list of attendees is impressive. Most of them he'd never run into normally, but this is _the_ grand party ushering in the start of the post-Hunger Games festivities. Everyone's here. And getting more wasted by the minute.

Just then, a swaying form interrupts his view and half-crashes into the mirror, trying to steady himself against it.

Zenobius is so busy admiring the smooth, tanned, and toned chest that it takes him a minute to raise his eyes to see who it is. When he does, a little thrill runs through him.

He looks around quickly, but no, the impossible has happened. Finnick Odair is up for grabs and right in front of him.

As a minor bureaucrat, he's not even close to being able to afford a public affair, but even flirting would be something to name-drop about later.

Normally, he'd be nervous about hitting on someone this famous, but with Finnick's reputation?

“All alone?” Zenobius croons, stepping up to him. He positions himself so that it's hard to tell, even with the mirrors, who he's standing in front of. First catch him, then show him off.

“Not any more.” The exact response he was hoping for, and with a delicious smile to boot. Finnick's eyes can barely focus, but it's easy to tell they like what they see.

Encouraged, Zenobius dares to stroke his fingers upward along his throat. When Finnick bends his lips down, it's time for showing off.

He glues himself to Finnick, staking out his claim, and shifts to the side. The feel of Finnick's arms sliding around him tells Zenobius he's got what he wants.

Then it's just a question of how much time they have and how far they can go in that time.

In a place like this, he was expecting to settle for necking and heavy petting, maybe some grinding if he's lucky. But Finnick's an out-of-control sex fiend, and he noticed what Zenobius missed. He directs a glance to the left, and when Zenobius follows it, he realizes they're standing next to some kind of closet.

“Oh, you bad, bad boy,” Zenobius giggles. 

Then they're both so eager it's hard to say who's dragging who inside.

Zenobius barely has time to notice that it's got cables and screens and blinking lights before they're on the floor, laughing.

Once there, he's expecting a quickie, in and out in under two minutes, so he starts tugging at their clothes, but it turns out Finnick's got something else in mind.

Sex is as common as food in the Capitol, and life is a neverending quest to spice it up.

Finnick wants to hear the gossip, and especially workplace gossip, with oral sex to reward for juicy tidbits. “It's so _boring_ in the districts.” It's amazing how he can even whine appealingly. “I'm finally back, and I need to hear absolutely everything that happened while I was gone.”

Zenobius immediately thinks of all the paperwork that comes across his desk that he's been bursting to share but can't. Finnick doesn't work here, doesn't even live here. Surely it's safe? It's like telling your cat.

“You can't tell anyone you heard this from me,” he makes Finnick promise.

“Oh, I won't even remember it tomorrow! I'll be busy remembering _you_ ,” he adds quickly. “You think I can keep track of details while I've got my face shoved between your legs?”

“That's true.” Zenobius gets comfortable and starts the game.

Half an hour later, he can't believe Finnick's still going. About ten minutes in, he started wanting Finnick to hurry up, stop making him talk, stop making him think. Finnick's not just gorgeous, he's good. A little clumsy from the alcohol and whatever else he took, but skilled where it counts. And he never slumps too heavily against Zenobius, just enough for him to get more turned on by Finnick's lack of self-control.

Except he still has too much. Zenobius wants to drag it out as much as he does, maybe more—major bragging points for a whole half hour with Finnick—but he also wants, needs him to deliver. He's melting, burning, dying for more, and Finnick still wants to know about the pending legal battle.

“Come on!” he urges, using his legs and arms to pull Finnick down on top of him.

Finnick yields, as easily as you'd expect from him, and they make out until Zenobius has forgotten his own name, but then he pulls away.

“Now you owe me for that one,” he teases. “Give me the scoop on the empty cabinet seat.”

“Someone's going to interrupt us any minute now,” Zenobius says in desperation. He's on fire everywhere Finnick's touched him.

Finnick winks mischievously. “Don't you worry, babe. I've got that covered.” He slides his hand into his pocket and flashes a key at him, then replaces it.

 _He got ahold of a key just for me?_ Zenobius grins up at him. “For that? You can have all night.”

* * *

_Go find out who it is._ Jerome has to take his hands out of the dough he's kneading to sign at Coral.

With a sigh, she goes. 

Of course, it's not even Dahlia, who's at least predictable, if oblivious. It's her latest acquisition, Finnick the Disgrace to District Four, wandering the halls in the middle of the night.

If there's one consolation prize to having your tongue ripped out, it's not having to expend any willpower on not telling Finnick Odair what you think of him. Coral just arranges her face into the deferential, helpful mask that she doesn't even have to think about any more, and waits.

“Couldn't sleep,” he explains with a silly smile. “I'm always revved up on the first night in a new place.” He looks around appreciatively. “It's really quite amazing here. Any chance of scaring up a cup of tea at a time like this?”

Coral could see herself falling for that self-deprecating charm, in a different life. But he clawed his way out of hunger and terror with blood on his hands, and now that he's made it out, he hasn't once looked back. If he wants to be one of them, then he's welcome to be despised as one of them. More so, because no one here knows any better. They were born to this life. He aspired to it.

Unusually for a guest, Finnick follows her to the kitchen. Coral can't remember anyone ever doing this before. Avoxes are practically invisible. No one wants to stand too close or even make eye contact. It's like missing a tongue is contagious.

She doesn't know what the protocol for this is, whether she'll get in trouble later for letting him, or for trying to stop him.

So she does the easy thing, bitterly: she keeps her mouth shut.

He tries following her inside the kitchen, but Maddy steps in and shoos him away. _Tea_ , Coral signs gratefully. Jerome steps away from the cabinet, giving her access.

While she's selecting a flavor—he wasn't very specific—Jerome turns to look at her. She knows by now without having to think about it, that his hands are positioned where none of the security cameras will pick them up.

 _Did she kick him out of bed?_ he signs salaciously.

Coral's eyebrows fly up. That hadn't occurred to her. Jerome's just joking, but it gives her an idea.

She can hardly poison Finnick, no matter what her feelings. That'll get her killed faster than anything. He's not someone who can just disappear.

But she doesn't want him sticking around, either. Several of the Avoxes, including her, are part of a circle that passes around information. Some of them dream of open rebellion, but Coral's more realistic. Small, incremental, unseen improvements. Making life easier for the oppressed. Like Mags is doing back home. Nothing too ambitious, just what she calls elbow room.

Coral can't let all their hard work be driven to ruin by a playboy's latest love affair.

It's not Finnick per se she's worried about, it's who he brings with him. Dahlia isn't a recluse, but neither is she at the heart of the Capitol social scene. She hosts events occasionally, but she spends most of her time working or flying her personal hovercraft, and doesn't have fifty semi-permanent guests or week-long parties every month.

Finnick is going to change all that. Already the servants' quarters are buzzing with anticipation. Will working double duty be enough to keep Dahlia from having to bring on extra staff?

Maybe if he only stays a week, a month, but if he moves in...more staff, guests everywhere, all the time.

No. 

So maybe, just maybe, Coral can slip something in his drinks that'll make him less appealing to Dahlia. Something very subtle and plausible, that he'll think is natural. The woman's no beauty queen, no matter how hard she tries. If he can't get it up for her, it'll drive a wedge between them, and no one will suspect Coral.

She'll start working on that tomorrow, then. The Capitol abounds in substances like that, all part of the games of sex and revenge. Unless he's more unfamiliar with Capitol than she thinks, Finnick will probably be able to counter with a drug of his own, but if he does, Coral will make sure Dahlia finds out, and the wedge will still be there.

That's that, then. 

Tonight, though, she has to get him settled with a more innocuous cup. Tray in hand, Coral hesitates. The imposing dining room is the obvious choice, but Dahlia runs an informal household, and that means the den is also an option. What will make him more uncomfortable, sitting alone at a luxurious table meant to hold forty, or sitting in an armchair in a messy, lived-in room?

It depends on whether he values luxury or comfort most.

From under her eyelashes, Coral sizes him up. Everyone knows he goes for wealth, not looks, when choosing his partners. But she doesn't want him so comfortable he decides to move in.

Still, Dahlia is one of the wealthiest women alive. If she wins, it'll be because of that. And Dahlia usually never lets anyone into her den-cum-office, because she uses it for working rather than showing off.

The den it is, then.

If Finnick's disappointed, he's polite enough not to complain. He compliments the décor, thanks her for the tea, and admires the framed picture of Dahlia standing on the steps of the Presidential mansion, hanging over her desk. “I'm sure there's a story behind that,” he says. “Daria Morningglory,” he reads aloud from the caption. “Daria—oh, I see.”

 _I hope you call her that to her face,_ Coral thinks with vindictive glee.

He keeps up a running commentary even when it's a one-way conversation. Maybe he likes hearing himself talk so much he even prefers an audience that can't answer back. “It's a lovely room. I like how comfortable it is. The odds and ends scattered around, and the afghan thrown across the chair. It's not like when you've got someone hovering one step behind you, wiping off every fingerprint you leave until you're afraid to touch anything. Makes you feel right at home.”

Coral tries not to cringe at the last word. Well, too late now. Maybe he's just saying it, anyway.

She sets the tea on the small table beside the armchair with the afghan, and he takes his seat.

If she wanted to encourage him to extend his stay, she'd have supplied crumpets, jam, the whole works, unasked. But Coral's going to make him work for what he wants. He asked for a cup of tea; a cup of tea is what he gets.

She considered being petty enough to bring only the tea, no sugar, no milk, no pot in case he wants seconds, but she's not trying to get punished over this. One tray with the bare minimum, then, and once she's poured for him, Coral positions herself in front of him with the bland mask that conceals her thoughts.

She manages not to snort when he compliments the service, but she does raise an eyebrow when he says he hopes he hasn't caused any inconvenience with his midnight wanderings. He hasn't exactly crossed the line from classy to gauche by talking to her, but even a one-way conversation of empty politenesses is walking the line.

 _Your district origins are showing,_ she thinks sardonically, and then catches herself in surprise. Has she been in the Capitol so long she's become one of them? That she's bought into the idea that it's unacceptable to treat criminals with basic civility?

It's just that she counts on being ignored. That even if she hates everything about her life, she can get some clandestine work done, because no one pays any attention to her as long as she fades into the background. And he's ruining that.

Has he really not forgotten where he comes from, or does his cluelessness just happen to mimic human decency?

As Finnick sips in silence, looking around the room with a smile as bland as her own, Coral decides to take a leap in the dark. Standing where the only camera she knows about can't see her fingers over her thigh, she waits until his gaze lands on her, and she flicks four of her fingers at him.

No reaction. He must have gotten the message, that they hail from the same district. But he isn't interested in a real connection with her, or anyone. Totally self-absorbed.

When he's taking his leave, saying that the tea helped and he's sure he'll sleep well and deeply now, Finnick says, again blandly, and without making direct eye contact, that Dahlia seems very gracious and he hopes she's a good mistress to serve.

Meaningless question. Who the hell likes being an Avox? And even if she wanted to say she's unhappy, what could she do under surveillance but nod and smile? Maybe he's too stupid to know about the surveillance.

Either way, he's just an automaton, sucking up to everyone mindlessly in hopes that someday he'll be allowed to leave District Four behind forever.

Coral's disgust rises. _No more erections for you, boy._

* * *

_You're boring him!_ Dahlia tells herself for the hundredth time. But then, _No, he likes flying. He said he likes sailing boats, why wouldn't he like being in a hovercraft?_

At first, she thought nothing of his delight when she mentioned her interest in flying. After all, it is something she can offer that very few others can, even at the social level of the women eligible to marry Finnick Odair. A private hovercraft, ready to take off whenever he wants, no red tape. He dropped a hint, she made the offer, and now he's sharing her bed and her 'craft.

She's always retained a pilot for when she's tired or otherwise occupied, but Finnick never seems to want to get out of the cockpit, so she flies him herself. He drinks in the scenery with huge eyes, and admires everything he sees. Since he doesn't seem to recognize most of it, she proudly points everything out to him, and she's pleased when he asks the questions that give her a chance to show off.

Pleased enough to forget, sometimes, that just because she's obsessed with something, doesn't mean everyone else isn't rolling their eyes and checking their wrists while she talks.

Not Finnick, though. Dahlia thought for sure she'd blown it the first time, answering all his questions instead of asking him about himself, gossiping, behaving like a normal person, but here they are again, after a long night and a late breakfast in bed.

“I've sailed boats,” Finnick comments, craning his neck at the window, “but it's so different, being in the air. It's more exciting!”

“I bet! Is it less crowded too, or do you get out to open sea?” There. She remembered to ask him something. Conversation. That's how it works.

“Oh, no.” Finnick shakes his head. “This is _much_ better. I don't know how far you're allowed to fly, but the air's a lot emptier than the coastline of District Four, I can tell you that. Even as far out to open sea as we're allowed to sail, you're constantly maneuvering around everyone else.”

“I don't know how far we're allowed to go. I've never been stopped, as long as I yield right of way when I'm supposed to. I don't know if we're allowed to fly out over the districts,” Dahlia muses. “I don't know why anyone would want to.”

“Well,” Finnick says deprecatingly, “you might get homesick. Just for a glimpse of the sea from the air, you understand, not to land. Everything smells like fish!”

“I've never seen the ocean from the air...I've never seen the ocean,” Dahlia realizes.

_He said 'homesick'! Homesick!_

“The sunsets can be pretty amazing from the ground,” Finnick promises her. “I can't imagine what they'd look like from the air.”

Dahlia's almost dizzy. This might work out. It might actually work out.

Or he's just pretending his interest in flying because he's after the money behind the 'craft. That's fair. She's only pretending to be besotted with him because it makes her look less weird. No, more than that. He makes her feel less weird.

So much so that she lets her guard down and catches herself asking if he'd like to operate the controls he was so eagerly eyeing. Then she has to kick herself again. That's _work_ , that's a pilot's job, she's the only one crazy enough to like work, she keeps forgetting. “I didn't mean-”

But before she can apologize, Finnick's reaching out and asking questions.

Stunned, Dahlia starts answering, and demonstrating. Day after day, she finds herself in the air with him, and he doesn't move out of her mansion for the first socialite who knows how to entertain a lover. She barely even remembers the nights, just holds her breath waiting for their next flying adventure.

She won't let him take off or land without more training than she can give him, but when they're out over the open prairie and she has an impromptu landing spot picked out in case she suddenly has to grab control, she lets Finnick pilot a short ways.

And he is good. Not a skilled pilot, by any means, but he doesn't touch anything without permission, and he doesn't try anything he doesn't know how to do. _I guess crashing your boat is almost as bad as crashing your 'craft._

She takes over when they come within sight of the Presidential mansion—she's not allowed to fly directly over it—with all its fountains and gardens and conservatories, and she gives him a long-distance tour.

“Look, and the grounds are only slightly nicer than yours!” Finnick flatters.

“Oh, Finnick! It's much nicer than mine.” But she's pleased, as he intended. “They say he even does some of his own gardening. I always mean to,” she answers the unasked question, “but...I don't know where he finds the time.”

She cuts herself off. Flying is one thing, and maybe Finnick's genuinely interested, but absolutely no one wants to hear the details of finances.

Investing, trading, banking, these are how she took a small, inherited fortune to the scale that most of the Capitol secretly hates her for, and how she spends most of her time on the ground.

You're supposed to while away your days in mindless pleasures, and Dahlia puts in her appearances, but she was born with some weird defect, that what interests other people puts her to sleep, and vice versa.

She's either bored or boring at parties. Bear-baiting was entertaining enough the first time, but one animal being ripped apart is much like another. She believes in gambling when it's done by other people, but she never gambles herself. That's why she's never sponsored a tribute and never will. 

She lends money to those who never have enough, they spend it, and then she collects ruthlessly, with interest.

At least being boring pays off. The Capitol elite are happy with their luxuries, the treasury's happy with its luxury and interest taxes, and she's happy because she's set for life.

That reminds her...

“If you wanted to move in, I won't be on your case if you stay out late.” Then Dahlia hears how that might sound. “Not that I don't want you around! I'm just making sure you know you can have the best of both worlds: my fortune, your lifestyle.”

“They do say absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Finnick smiles warmly. “No complaints when you sleep alone, no complaints when you don't?”

“Exactly!” She hopes he has no complaints. She's so hyperaware that she's going through the motions that it's hard to keep track of whether he is. But if he is, now he has an out. This is why open marriages are so popular. Marriage for money, affairs for pleasure.

Her last husband spent money like water, and it looks like this one will too, but she has a lot more now, and Finnick can help her figure out what to do with it.

Dahlia dodges the thought that if the point of having money is to catch Finnick, and the point of catching Finnick is to spend the money, she's still not sure what the point is. The point is she'll finally look normal. That's all she wants. Keep working and pretending she doesn't like it, maintain an elaborate mansion and pretend she likes it, and remember there's never really any such thing as too much money, even if the only pleasure it brings Dahlia is the making of it.

No, there is one real pleasure. Being able to afford a private hovercraft, even if no one understands why she wants to fly it herself. Finnick seems to understand, anyway. He asks so many questions and wants to try his hand at so many aspects of flying that she forgets to be self-conscious for hours at a time.

The first time her stomach growls and she realizes she not only missed lunch, she's about to miss dinner, and she didn't pack any food because she didn't expect to be up here so long, Dahlia thinks she might really be in love.

He even says he wants to stay for the sunset, and it makes Dahlia sad that she has to shake her head, firmly. Finnick may be used to going hungry, but she gets cranky if she misses a meal. Still, her heart is going like a rabbit's.

Then, as she's landing, and the cameras that swarm around Finnick like flies on a dead tribute converge on the hovercraft door, she remembers they're both faking.

She's about to step outside with him when she realizes this is going to be all over the tabloids if not worse tomorrow, and she was so caught up in the moment she forgot to check her hair, her makeup, everything. He'll be gone the moment he catches sight of what a mismatched couple they look.

“What?” Finnick hesitates by the rear exit, turns back. “What's wrong, honey?”

Dahlia's frantically pulling out a compact, trying to touch her face up, _almost_ sure the reporters can't see her through the windows but turning away just in case. Shit, she looks forty, she _is_ forty, he's supposed to think she's in her twenties, what is she doing here-

“Ah.” Finnick crawls back into the cockpit, takes the compact from her gently, and leans in, kneeling on the seat next to her.

Five minutes later, her hair's mussed, she's got lipstick on her temple, and a bruise forming on her jawline. She looks like a mess, but the right kind of mess now. 

“There we go.” Expertly, Finnick tugs the front of her shirt out of place just enough to slide his hand up and get a good feel, then does an obviously sloppy job of tucking it back in.

“Thanks,” Dahlia breathes, husky. This one's a keeper.

* * *

After a string of late nights and catnaps, Finnick checks into a cheap hotel lobby in an obscure part of town just before dawn, wearing dark glasses.

It's a good test of his undercover skills, getting here without being tracked by reporters or fans. His presence here is recorded during the check-in process, but that's all automated and biometric, so unless someone thinks to hack the computer records, he's won himself a breathing space.

He'd rather not spend the money, but Mags told him sharply after his second year that the cost of a few nights in a hotel was much less than the cost of him making a mistake. He thrives on the wild lifestyle, but when he finds himself feeling strung out from sleep deprivation, he needs a place where the back of his brain isn't jumping at every sound.

So far, he's been allowed to keep it. Disappear for a couple nights here and there, and Snow's only called him on it the once. Finnick played his role to the hilt: gawking boy from the districts too eager to drink everything in to sleep, living on stimulants, and finding a hotel to avoid embarrassing himself with an on-camera crash. Because he behaves himself impeccably, always comes back into the limelight after a night or two and doesn't do anything the least bit out of line, his story passed muster. Snow probably doesn't want him making mistakes either.

He wishes he didn't need this escape, but he was telling the truth about not wanting to crash where anyone can see him. Instead, he crashes in the shower, slumped against the wall while the water pours over him.

How absurd, how unbelievably _ludicrous_ is it that Finnick can field whatever the socialites throw at him with a laugh, and it's Flavia, Flavia goddamn Winterhorn, who brings him within a hairsbreadth of breaking down. Finnick pounds a fist on the cracked and grimy tile shower wall before stopping himself. Even here, he's not free of surveillance. He can be wound up, he can be exhausted, but he can't be vulnerable.

Instead he forces himself through his showering rituals mechanically, his mind in a turmoil.

Because always, always, it's Finnick who has to make himself want what they give him. Whether it's a chance to show off hard-earned pain tolerance, or acting skills, or even his self-control when his body wants something more than his mind can afford.

But this time it was Flavia making him want it. It was just a taste, a cracked-mirror reflection, of what he really needs, but it awoke a hunger so consuming that he still can't shut out the whispering in his mind. _Yes, you want this, yes, you belong here, you're one of us, you can never escape._

He has defenses against anything the Capitol can throw at him, but the total surrender left him weaponless. Scared of not being in control, scared of wanting it, scared of not being able to control what he wanted. Even knowing it was all a meaningless game of acting out her fantasies couldn’t quite keep it from getting under his skin.

 _That still doesn't mean you want to trade in for the other skin_ , Finnick reminds himself, surprised the thought even crossed his mind. He prides himself on feeling comfortable in both skins: the peacock of the Capitol, and the best damn trident-wielder in District Four.

When he feels like this, it's usually when he's just gotten off the train after a long tour of duty in the Capitol. He goes for a swim and showers the salt off afterwards, and somehow that helps.

No salt here, no salt for a long time. Just tap water and a tiny face cloth that's not nearly up to the job, but that's why he's in a cheap hotel. It's rundown, for low-ranked Peacekeepers who can barely afford the train ride but still have to spend a night in the Capitol for mandatory functions.

Cigarette holes in the bedspread, which he kicks off and pushes to the floor, followed, in a rare bout of self-indulgence, by the sheets, so that he'll sleep on the bare mattress. He almost thinks of sleeping on the floor, but decides that would be giving too much away. This is different enough.

Not as different as having a lap to put his head on, but he'll think of _her_ when he gets home. He can't mix the two, can't have the ghost of Flavia's perfume still in his nostrils and try to remember anything real.

Stretching out on the mattress, Finnick changes his mind and yanks up one sheet from the floor. He pulls it up to his shoulders, and uses it as cover against any visual surveillance, while underneath he lets his hand trace out the map that he acquired during the flights with Dahlia. He needs the repetition to drum it into his memory. Acquiring information is one thing, hanging on to it for months another. He doesn't dare draw this map out, not even for practice, but he doesn't dare forget either.

His worst dreams consist of being quizzed by Mags about details he can't remember.

When he's satisfied that he's got as much as he's going to get tonight, and he'd better stop before sleepiness muddles the details in his mind, he heaves a sigh and turns over onto his side. He'll go over the map again first thing in the morning. Her passwords are a chant he's been reciting mentally as he goes through his day, no need for a sheet to conceal him.

Tucking his knees up to keep his feet from hanging off the edge, Finnick pulls the second pillow into his arms. Ironically, though he doesn't like sleeping alone, he usually ends up doing so. It's about trust.

He still can't think about _her_ , or he'll slip out of his persona. Maybe Johanna. She's prickly, and he's never held her, but he thinks he could close his eyes and fall asleep with her in the room. Cashmere. He's held her only once, and never bedded her, but she fit him well. Almost a match for him in height, full-bodied, athletic. Not lean and hard, but sleek, like a healthy horse.

Mags, his invisible partner in all his Capitol activities. Sitting on the edge of his bed, her hand on his hair, easing him into sleep. _I'll make you proud_ , he promises.

* * *

“You won’t believe what I got you this year,” Finnick tells Mags. They’re sitting outside, having a nice little outing to enjoy the pleasant weather, in a place solitary and yet noisy enough that he can transfer all his findings from this year’s reconnaissance mission to the Capitol.

He waits, expectantly, for Mags’ grin, and he doesn’t continue until he has it.

“A map. Of the Capitol and its surroundings.”

Mags asks cautiously, “And you know it’s from a reliable source?”

“I made it myself. It’s incomplete, but it’s accurate to the best of my ability.”

Mags does look impressed, then, and he rewards her with the full story of the buildings and terrain he captured in his mind. Unless Dahlia was lying or mistaken, this is critical information.

Mags is laughing by the end. “In seventy-seven years, I never came close to anything like that kind of knowledge. Finnick, you’re a wonder.”

“Oh, and I’ve now co-piloted a hovercraft,” Finnick adds, too casually. “In case we need a combat pilot or something.”

“I have waited my whole life for you.” Mags never stints on the praise each time Finnick returns from the Capitol. “Give me this map, then, and give it to Pearleye too. Did you write it down?”

Finnick shakes his head. “It was the risk of being caught against the risk of misremembering it. I went over it every day, first thing after waking and the last thing before bed. I traced it on the bed under the sheet, making myself remember. I hope it was enough.”

“We’ll pass it on with the caveat that it was acquired orally, then. I think we can draw up a couple copies and store them out of doors without getting caught.”

When they finish exchanging information, Mags takes a deep breath. Finnick can tell she’s about to begin something important, so he stops tracing idle circles in mud at the corner of the map he drew for Mags in the dirt and then rubbed out. His manicure is caked with black lines: the beginning of his transition back to District Four.

He looks up at Mags. When she’s satisfied she has his full attention, she begins. “I wasn’t speaking hyperbolically earlier. We are getting close to being ready to act on all of our carefully laid plans. And a lot of that is thanks to you. I wasn’t expecting to feel this good about making our move for another ten or twenty years. The most important missing piece I’m waiting on now is for the other districts to be ready. I don’t need them to have a plan, I just need major distractions that draw Capitol resources thin. Three is with us, and that’s the most important district for our plan, but I’ve no word from the others.”

“I’m working on Seven,” Finnick tells her, “and making headway, but beyond that, nothing. I might possibly have an inside contact for intelligence in One soon, but they’re never going to rebel.”

“No,” Mags agrees. “That’s what I’m going to need from you next. I’m not saying to abandon intelligence, since every year you surprise me more with your bounty, but I’m going to need more action in the other districts. Not One and Two, obviously.”

That’s an infinitely trickier assignment, since it involves determining who can be trusted, and coordinating with them. It’s so difficult to work with anyone from another district that Johanna and Finnick are still tiptoeing around each other. Mags has had decades to work with Wiress and Beetee, or District Three wouldn’t have come as far in this alliance as it has.

“Unfortunately,” Mags continues, “the only other person who’s shown any signs of being amenable to sedition is Haymitch, and I’m neither counting on District Twelve to give us much, nor do I think he’s reliable.”

Finnick has to agree. You’re not supposed to “show signs” of being open to the idea of armed rebellion. “Is he faking his alcoholism?” Finnick demands.

Mags looks at him, startled. “Not that I know of.”

His shoulders sag. “I was hoping you’d given him the same advice I’ve started giving victors, to fake something debilitating so they’ll leave you alone.”

“Is Annie faking?” Mags wants to know.

“I wish. But if she gets to the point where she can, I might start advising her to. Haymitch, though, seemed pretty intelligent in his Games, canny enough to try something.”

Mags shrugs. “I can’t tell you one way or the other. The intelligent ones break as easily as anyone else. I won’t say it’s impossible that he gets drunk publicly and only publicly, but he has as much reason to have broken as Annie. And remember what district he’s from. He had no mentor to warn him after he won.”

To Finnick’s narrowed eyes, she says firmly, “I can’t mentor the entire country.”

“I’m trying,” Finnick explodes. “If we’re waiting on the rest of the districts before we can make our move, we need to start reaching out to them with what we’ve learned. It drives me crazy that I can’t do anything with District One.”

“You can’t.” Mags tenses. “They’re too closely tied to the Capitol. We can’t risk giving anything away.”

“I know that, I didn’t,” Finnick says, annoyed. When he screws up, that’ll be soon enough for her to start worrying about his discretion. “I just...Just because of someone’s district's politics, does that mean that they deserve to suffer?”

“Of course not,” Mags says, “but it means we can’t personally help them.”

“Are you trying to win a war or are you trying to stop people from suffering?” Finnick demands.

“I’m trying to win a war. Who forces reaped tributes into the arena? I don’t fight what I can’t change. I throw everything I have into what I can change. Too much empathy can destroy you as easily as too little.”

“I didn’t think too much empathy was my problem,” Finnick flashes back.

“Neither did I. And then you met Annie.”

Finnick smiles sheepishly, acknowledging the hit, and Mags returns the smile.

“I think you’re reaching the age where you realize you can’t solve all the problems and you can’t save everyone, and if you spread yourself too thin, then you won’t be able to save anyone. You have all my sympathy, my boy, and I’m proud of you for reaching out, but it has to be tempered with wisdom. And if you held back from District One, then I’m just telling you something you already know.”

“Talk to Haymitch next year, though,” Finnick urges. “You know him better than I do.”

“I’ll see if I can find out if he’s faking,” Mags agrees. “If he’s not, there’s nothing I can do. Chemical addictions are among the hardest forms of coping to shake.”

Finnick badly wants to say something about painkillers, but he’s keeping his promise to Johanna not to tell unless it's absolutely necessary.

“Do you have any suggestions for other districts I should try? Or am I on my own after Three, Seven, and maybe Twelve?”

Mags shakes her head. “Do your best. You have a gift for this, and I know you’re cautious. One other thing. I said I had been expecting another ten or twenty years before we’re ready. Finnick, odds are, I don’t _have_ another ten or twenty years. Even if I die in my sleep tonight, I’ll know that I lived to see us get this close, and that’s more than I looked for when I realized how long it was going to take. What I’m saying is...thank you.”

“You’re going to live forever, Mags,” Finnick says with a quiet smile.

She smiles back. “Yes. And it helps to know that I’m surrounded by people I trust, and a successor who will be able to take over for me.”

“That’s going to be me, right?” Finnick says, carelessly arrogant.

Mags gives him a look like her heart is breaking with love and pride. “Come here.” She pats the ground beside her.

Finnick rolls his eyes. “You can say no without softening it.”

“No, I want to tell you what I’m thinking. Come here.”

When he sits beside her, Mags puts a hand on his knee. “There’s no one I trust more. There’s no one I’ve worked more closely with. I adopted you with more than the Hunger Games in mind, you know. Your reputation at the academy was for your trident prowess, but I never had much interest in weapons.”

“Mags...” Finnick looks at her tenderly. “I am your weapon.”

Mags falters, squeezes his knee, and swallows a couple of times before she can speak. “Yes. Yes, you are.”

When her voice is steady again, she continues.

“But even if you accelerate the revolution so much that I live to see it, I can't control or even predict everything that happens. We've built the entire plan around being flexible. If anything happens to Rudder, you're one of the people who might end up taking over the militia. Likewise, leadership of the district, if anything happens to Pearleye.

“But all in all, you have too many other strengths I need. You’re our finest warrior, bar none, and the leader can’t be risking his or her life constantly in the front lines. You can’t be combat pilot bearing down on the Capitol in the air, and simultaneously keep the war effort running smoothly at home. You can't be out gathering intelligence and forming contacts, and always available on short notice whenever a decision needs to be made.

“So yes, if there’s a vacuum of leadership and there’s no one else available, I can see you stepping in and holding things together. But I can also see you finding someone else to pass the reins on to as soon as you can, to free you up again.”

Finnick’s been nodding throughout the speech. “You’re right. I can’t argue with any of that. I thought you were going to say I have too many visible ties to the Capitol.”

“Mm.” Mags gives it some thought. “You're going to have a hard time at first, harder than I think you realize, but if anyone can pull off an about-face, it would be you.

“You’re doing wonders with manual labor here: risking your life hunting shark, diving, and loading and unloading cargo; taking on unwanted jobs like gutting fish; and going out on the water in the worst weather, just to keep people company who have to be out there. I still worry about you dying prematurely in an accident, but you’re right, it’s paying off. People respect you even when they’re rolling their eyes.”

“It’s a delicate line to walk,” Finnick admits.

“For all of us,” Mags says. “Mine is keeping the rebellion gaining momentum without letting it break out prematurely. That’s why we’re going to need outside assistance soon.”

Finnick promises everything he can deliver her, as always, and he’s not surprised when she puts her arms around him and tucks her chin into the crook of his shoulder. He missed her too, his primary confidante and partner-in-crime, after months away from home. He hugs her back and lets her pride in him soothe some of the guilt over abandoning Cashmere to Brutus and President Snow.


	6. Annie

"It's just a snake! It's just a snake!" Finnick hears Annie shouting these words over and over. Dropping everything he's holding from suddenly nerveless hands, he runs to her. Running is maybe not the best idea when there's a snake about, but Finnick's brain doesn't catch up to this idea until he's already at Annie's side.

She's as tense as though she's wrestling a lion with her bare hands, though she's frozen in place. Wanting more than anything to touch her, Finnick doesn't dare. "It's just a snake. It's just a snake." She's repeating this mantra over and over again, in an increasingly lower voice.  
  
"It's just a snake," Finnick agrees. They stand there watching it together, without moving. If he had his trident, Finnick would spear it just to make Annie feel better, or himself really, but he doesn't, and rationally he knows that attacking it will only escalate the situation. The snake's far enough away that if they don't move and startle it, it should have the sense to back away from the humans. Snakes only attack if they're threatened. Unless they're mutts.  
  
This one shows no signs of being a mutt. After rearing a bit and showing its fangs, it waits, then starts sliding into the lake.  
  
After it's well and truly gone, Finnick takes a deep breath. That was a venomous bastard. Annie, of course, is still staring at where she first spotted the snake. Her eyes are unfocused, and Finnick knows that he can't get through to her just yet.  
  
In frustration, Finnick looks around him. He spots a tree, and goes over to break off a sturdy branch.  
  
"Will this make you feel better," he asks Annie, matter-of-factly because that's all that seems to work with her, "or will it just make you relive it?"  
  
Something about Annie's body language tells him she's listening but doesn't dare, or can't, look away, so he brings the branch around in front of her, into her line of vision. "Do you want this?" he asks again.  
  
Slowly, Annie feels for it like a blind person. Then she takes a two-handed grip on her weapon. After a while, she says, indistinctly, "I'm reliving it." Finnick feels sick. "But I'm winning."  
  
"You won," he reminds her. "They didn't even get a bite in. You kicked some snake ass."  
  
"Do snakes have asses?" Annie wonders with a faint smile. She's back in reality, however badly shaken. She takes a step backward toward Finnick, and finally he's able to put his arms around her. His hands close over hers on the branch, and they stand there holding this weapon against their invisible enemy, until at last she sighs and lets it fall.  
  
Annie rests her head on his chest, just breathing. Finnick lifts a hand to stroke her hair, but she stiffens. He immediately freezes, understanding that she wants everything not to move for a little while. He has far too much experience with her like this.  
  
"Thank you for..." Annie sighs, and some of the tension flows from her shoulders. "For not freaking out. Do you know how many people freak out when I have an episode? It just makes things worse."  
  
"Annie, if I can't make it better, I can at least try not to make it worse."  
  
He knows the next step of this dance. In that moment before Annie starts to pull away, he opens his arms and lets her go. She's sliding into detached mode, her armor against engaging too closely with the world when she's vulnerable. "You made it better," she says in her best socially polite inflections. "The branch was a good idea."  
  
"I didn't know," Finnick sighs in relief. "It could have backf-.  
  
"Let's talk about something else, shall we?" Annie says brightly, still doing a tightrope act between false warmth and distance. This is her smile of _I'm going to be nice and then no one will get hurt._ It makes her seem about fifty years old, a hostess who knows how to be gracious to her guests even if she doesn't like half of them.  
  
Finnick interrupts his own need to talk about what's racing through his head, and tries to keep pace with her moods. He feels like he can never act, only react, with Annie, and pray he's doing the right thing. "I don't think either of us is going to feel like going back in the water. Do you want to pick up some hot chocolate on the way home?"  
  
"If we can drink it when we get home." No lingering in sidewalk cafes for her today.  
  
"No, of course. That’s what I meant."  
  
They share hot chocolate and muffins from the bakery at her breakfast table. Annie's still not fully engaged, "mm-hmm"ing to his conversation, but she isn't showing signs of wanting to flee, either. It’s more like she's using the time to bring herself under control.  
  
Finally, she sighs. "This isn't really fair to you."  
  
"And it's so fair to you, I suppose."  
  
"Well." Annie can hardly argue with that. "But you can walk away from this. Go live your spectacular life. Not be jerked around by my mood swings."  
  
Finnick sets down his cup, furious with no one to be furious at. "Annie, you know what my spectacular life is like. You of all people."  
  
She looks at him with those big brown eyes. "Trade." Her voice is mousy quiet on that word.  
  
Finnick breaks. He looks down at Annie's hands, wrapped around a ceramic cup. He wants to take them, but his own are shaking and suddenly very, very cold. "Yes, I know." His voice is toneless. "I would trade with you in a heartbeat if I could. I would fight this battle for you. But I can't. All I can do is not walk away."  
  
Annie swishes the dregs of her own cup, stares into them, and then suddenly hurls the cup at the wall. The smash it makes must be satisfying, for she reaches out and takes his hands in between hers. Hers are still warm from the chocolate. But she pulls them back after only a few moments, never able to touch long when she's in this mood.  
  
"If you want to talk about what's not fair," Finnick rages, "every year when I go to the Capitol, I think that after all you went through, you should at least be able to enjoy it. That's kind of the point."  
  
"I don't want it," she says tersely.  
  
"I know. But the food at least. You'd like it, I promise. I'd bring it home to you if it didn't spoil. I want to lay the world at your feet, and all I can do is drink chocolate in your kitchen while you recover."  
  
"If you weren't here," Annie muses, "I'd have gone straight to my room, and I'd be lying there staring at the ceiling and feeling sick to my stomach. Hot chocolate and feeling sick to my stomach is better."  
  
It's a good sign that she's opening up to him, and not just being polite.  
  
"That said, I do need to crash. I'm going to take my pills and try to sleep. Thank you for coming by. It was a lovely afternoon outing-"  
  
"Until it wasn't," Finnick finishes ruefully. "It did start out with a double rainbow, at least."  
  
"It did," she agrees. "You should head home. I'll clean up here."  
  
"I'll clean," he offers. "Get some sleep."  
  
Annie wants to argue, but she's too tired, or numb, or something. "You'll show yourself out, then."  
  
"I know the way to the door," he assures her. When she's up in her bedroom, having audibly closed and locked her door, and he's picking up the shards of her shattered cup, Finnick wants to smash something himself. Every time he thinks he might suggest spending the night, she makes him wonder if he's completely missed the mark on what their relationship is. She’ll have sex during the day, but by nightfall, without fail she’ll go to bed alone.

Someone else might be playing hard to get. With Annie...he knows that sometimes interacting with people is more than she can handle. And he tries to be patient, but he's not good at patient. Though he's learning.  
  


* * *

  
"I hope you like sleeping on couches," Annie says briskly the next morning. He can't tell if she's pleased or displeased that he stayed.  
  
"I've slept on worse," he tells her. "Slept on Mags' for months before she gave me a room. Slept in an alley before that."  
  
"Really?" Annie interrupts her bread buttering to look at him. "Wow, at least I always had a place to sleep."

Finnick thinks he would take having enough to eat any day. Mind you, it might have been raining, but it wasn't winter. He might have changed his mind in time.

"How come Mags made you wait so long?"  
  
"I think she kept hoping I'd make it up with my parents. They kind of hated her, you know. They wanted me back."  
  
"Have you-" She cuts herself off before she can pry, but Finnick answers anyway.  
  
"Yeah, I tried after I won. They didn't want me back after that. I'm just a defector now."  
  
"Mm." Annie takes a bite of her toast. "Not long ago, I tried seeing if any of my sisters—cousins—didn't totally hate me. Not hate, really, but my aunt and uncle made sure everyone knew I didn't belong, and they copied her. I thought maybe if they were just following their parents’ example, maybe their own feelings would be different as adults."  
  
"Yeah?" Finnick says noncommittally, not prying, but inviting further discussion.  
  
"Yeah, well. Maybe. You don't build a relationship overnight. Grace at least asked if the money her mother’s been sending was coming from me. I think she must have known—I mean, where else would it come from?—but she was giving me the opportunity to talk about something I did right for the family. Like an opening. And that's all."  
  
"Sounds promising," Finnick suggests. He pours them each a glass of milk. No orange juice in Annie's fridge.  
  
"You can ask," Annie says. They're both treading on eggshells here, but who else are they going to talk to about their secret pains?  
  
"How did they react when they came to see you off to the Games? Did anyone seem..." He can't think of a word that isn't emotionally loaded here.  
  
Annie shakes her head. "No one came."  
  
"No one came?!" Finnick's milk sloshes in the glass, when his hand falls to the table. None spills, but he scarcely notices either way. "My parents came! And they never even spoke to me again."  
  
"Family is difficult," Annie says. They eat in silence for a while after that. Then she picks up her plate to take it to the sink. "Thank you for being here and for making me breakfast, but I really, really do need some time alone today."  
  
"That's all right," Finnick tells her. "I have plans. Call Mags if you need anything. She'll know where to find me."  
  


* * *

  
Finnick charges into Mags' house and makes a beeline for the wall that holds the tapes. He scans the shelf, grabs the one he's looking for, and shoves it into the viewer.  
  
"The Seventieth Annual Hunger Games!" the announcer cries over the opening montage.  
  
Mags hears the noise and comes downstairs. She's an earlier riser than he is, but often takes a while to muster the energy to navigate the stairs.  
  
Finnick is standing behind the couch and leaning over it, resting his arms on the back. Every inch of his body language screams "trained killer."  
  
Mags comes and sits on the couch in front of him. They watch silently together as the Careers hunt, mutts attack, and Annie and Evan range from hiding place to hiding place while he picks off the weakest.  
  
 _"I've been someone else's burden my whole life,"_ Annie tells her district partner on screen. _"If I'm going to die anyway, then there's no point in bringing you down with me. Just, um, maybe don't lead them to me?"_  
  
"Fuck," Finnick says. "Fuck. Fuck!" He kills the screen's power viciously. "That's why she snapped." He was hazy on the details of her Games from when he'd seen them live, but a faint memory had been nagging at him, until he hit this point.  
  
"She holds herself responsible for everything," Mags says. "While living in a world in which we're all at the mercy of the Capitol. So when everything goes as badly wrong as it can, she blames herself, and then she tears herself to pieces."  
  
"They did that to her, didn't they?" Finnick demands.  
  
"They?"  
  
"Her family. Her god-damned aunt." The heavy couch actually rocks under his hands.  
  
"Finnick," she warns him, "you can't kill them. You can't beat them up. I promise you, violence will only make this worse for Annie."  
  
"Where 'worse' is defined as what?" Finnick rages.  
  
"Her holding herself responsible for your behavior. More suffering laid at her door. I didn't kill your parents. I didn't even confront them."  
  
"My parents didn't break me!"  
  
"They could have!” Mags insists. “The only reason what they did to you didn't break you was because you were so focused on your one goal that anything they did barely registered, except as an obstacle. You're a living juggernaut. Someone else, _most_ someone elses, would have cracked."  
  
"Someone less of a juggernaut wouldn't have provoked them to such desperate measures! And they came and said goodbye to me."  
  
"They came and said a few other things to me," Mags says coolly.  
  
Finnick's head snaps in her direction. "Like what? I didn't know that."  
  
"I'm not telling you until you calm down. Be kind to her, Finnick," Mags tells him. "That's the best and only thing you can do to help."  
  
"She keeps pushing me away. She doesn't trust people. She thinks she doesn't deserve me, or I don't deserve her, or something."  
  
"I'll talk to her," Mags assures him. "But you have to promise me."  
  
"I promise." Finnick deflates. "You know I wouldn't. I just-."  
  
"I know." Mags reaches over her shoulder to touch his hand on the backrest of the couch, and he lets her squeeze it reassuringly.  
  
"You'll talk to her? Nothing I say is the right thing."  
  
"I will. But I promise you, there is no right thing in situations like this. You just keep saying the same thing over and over again, until finally the other person reaches the same conclusion themselves. If you think you can do that, then do. If not, then..." Mags, trainer of trainees and mentor of tributes, doesn't believe in false hope. "Then maybe she's right and you deserve better."  
  
Finnick shakes his head, stubborn.  
  
"Then hang in there. She is talking to you at least, I gather?"

"What do you mean?"

"She had an aunt? This is more than I knew."

Finnick pauses, and mentally re-adjusts his perception of his relationship with Annie. Mags is the easy one to talk to: supportive and a font of good advice. He's the difficult one. People become fascinated with him easily, but after a few days of close contact tend to get irritated and back off. Or if not, it's because their fantasies are especially persistent in the face of reality. Annie's opened up to him, sure, but that's just her loneliness meeting his. She'd open up to anyone who treats her gently. Or so he'd thought.

"I keep thinking she's holding me at arm's length, and in a way I guess she is, but..." He trails off.

"As far as I can tell, you're the only one she talks to at all," Mags says bluntly. "I'll do what I can, but I doubt I'm going to make any headway you haven't."

Finnick needs to go off by himself, maybe into the water, and think about this revelation and what it means for him. "Don't worry about it, then," he tells her, distracted. "There's nothing here I can't handle."

* * *

Mags does go and talk to Annie, with no small amount of guilt from the fact that it's certainly not what Finnick imagined her saying.

She hasn't visited Annie socially in a while, only checking in on her from time to time, and leaving when she confirmed that Annie was fine. But while she's willing to respect Annie's aloofness, she meant what she said to Finnick about needing to build a cohesive team.

Annie's having a good day, and she meets her old mentor with warmth. She tries but can't quite hide her eyes widening at the sight of the cane in Mags' hands. Mags has recently taken to using it when she has to walk any real distance, when there are stairs, or when she's especially tired. Today is one of the especially tired days.

Mags smiles wryly. "I'm lucky to have lived this long. Possibly the only one in the district."

"How old are you? I never asked."

"Seventy-seven, my dear. Slower, stiffer, wiser. But deep inside, I'll always be fifteen and faintly surprised to still be alive."

Annie leads her to the living room. While she's starting a kettle of tea on the stove, Mags looks around at her surroundings. Every time she visits, Annie's touched up the room with something new. What she sees now is a charming arrangement of shells, driftwood, carvings, a few photos...Mags peers at them but sees no faces she recognizes.

"I like the starfish," she says when Annie sits down and hands her her cup of tea.

"Thanks. I think it came out a little lopsided, but Finnick insists he can't see it, so..."

Mags' head snaps to look at Annie, and then back at the starfish. "What, _you_ carved that?"

Annie looks surprised. "Well, if you're almost never going to leave the house, you need to have some hobbies. I took up wood carving a while back."

"Let me see." Mags stretches a beckoning hand in the direction of the shelf on which it rests, but doesn't feel like standing up and walking over to get it. Annie brings it to her, shyly proud. "So much detail." Mags turns it over in her hands, admiring the workmanship. "I suppose I haven't kept in touch as well as I could have."

"No one could blame you," Annie says, her eyes on the carving Mags is holding. "You looked after me in the beginning, and I took everything I was feeling out on you. I never thanked you for...for anything, I suppose. Or apologized."

With a start, Mags realizes that Annie thinks she's the one being avoided. "Oh, my girl. No one knows what you were going through better than I do. I could never hold anything against you." She puts a hand on Annie's shoulder, bringing her to look up. "I would have come as often as you wanted me. I kept my distance because I thought you didn't want to be reminded of your Games."

"Maybe I didn't," Annie admits. "I still don't. But, I don't know, I've known you long enough now that you're not my Hunger Games mentor any more; you're just...Mags." She smiles winningly. "You should come over more. We host dinners all the time, usually at his place because it's better equipped. And drop by for tea any time. If I'm up for company, you're always welcome."

Yet another surprise: "we host." Mags' interpretation was that Finnick had successfully gotten Annie to start showing up to the gatherings he's been hosting for years. Now it sounds like Annie's been going over early and sharing responsibility for getting everything ready.

Good for her. "Yes, I keep hearing about the fun you young people have."

"Come now," Annie says, laughing. "I just heard you say you were fifteen. Visit more often. Finnick talks about you all the time."

"I will, then, and glad of it," Mags says warmly. Then she gets a little more serious as she turns to the topic of her visit. "He talks about you too, you know."

"Does he? He won't say it in so many words, but I think he must be lonely." Annie takes the starfish from her and hands her an owl, carved in relief. "I haven't got the hang of animals in the round yet."

"It's lovely," Mags says of the owl, sincerely. "He's always made superficial connections easily, but deeper ones, almost never. That's one of the things I wanted to say to you. You know I love him, more than anyone in the world. But I don't want to see you get hurt. He has a very strong personality, and it's not going to change for anyone."

"Why would I want him to change? He's the only one-" Annie breaks off. "Look, I appreciate that you mean well, but you have it all backward. The one who needs to change is me. And I'm trying not to hurt him, but after everything you went through with me, I'd think you'd be warning him away from me."

Mags is once again confirmed in her assessment that Annie blames herself for everything. She can't fix that right now, so all she can do is stick to her original point. "He knows what he's getting into. But you--he's never going to settle down and stop playing around in the Capitol, filling every bed he can get into."

"I know that," Annie tells her, indignant. "He told me why he goes."

Mags is startled. Does she know what she's saying? "He told you—what?"

Annie looks at her seriously. "Why he needs to do this. And that he doesn't share his reasons with everyone."

Oh, my. Not only is Annie privy to the underground plotting, she's even caught the knack of the vagueness of speech between two members who both know what they're talking about.

So Annie shares her childhood with Finnick, and Finnick tells her secrets that could get everyone killed if she betrays them. This relationship is a lot more serious than Mags realized. She'd anticipated nothing of the sort when she instructed Finnick to break through Annie's fear.

Mags can hear him now, and it makes her want to laugh. _When you tell me to do something, I do it_ _really_ _well_.

"As far as I'm concerned," Annie continues, "he can come over when he pleases, and if I can handle company, I'll let him in. And if he doesn't want to come over...I'm not expecting him to be interested in me forever, you know. He'll get tired of the inconsistency eventually. In fact, I'm not even sure why he keeps coming back, except that when it's good, it's really good."

"I'm glad. For both of you. I really am." Mags smiles at her, and is, for the first time, optimistic about where this is headed. Annie wants it but has her doubts about it working, and Finnick is determined. The odds are rather more in their favor than if it were the other way around. He can't be tied down against his will, but neither can he be deterred when he has a goal. Mags should know.

"Meanwhile," Annie says with passion, "if he wants to have a televised orgy with half the Capitol, he has my blessing. Not only if it's necessary. There are so few things we get to enjoy that if he finds something, he should take it with both hands. I'm trying to find things I enjoy, and I'd like to do something important." She looks earnestly at Mags. "Finnick says people listen to you? In District Four, when it's something important?"

Mags nods slowly. Only the members of the inner circle, mostly but not entirely consisting of the victors, report directly to her, but they each have their own larger spheres of influence. She doesn't see herself as the leader of the underground movement, just the advisor, but she knows some of them do.

"I want in." Annie's face is set in very determined lines. "I don't know what use I'll be when I can barely manage my own life, but I want to help. I might even be more motivated to force myself to do things I'm afraid of if I know it's for a good cause. Maybe I'll get some of that confidence Finnick keep saying I deserve more of."

"Did he tell you to talk to me?" Mags asks. Finnick should have been quite capable of inducting her himself, which he seems partially to have done already.

"He says you have a knack for figuring out what people are good at. I'll do anything you tell me to, just...I know you know my limits."

Mags is realizing that she's going to have to get to know this girl all over again, but she's starting to understand what Finnick sees in her. "It would be my honor," she says. "Give me some time to think about where I could use some help, and we'll talk again."

Annie mimes rowing with a questioning look, and Mags nods approvingly. They're pretty sure the houses are bugged but not video-recorded, and the outdoors may be video-recorded at any point—although surely not every point—but can't be effectively bugged.

"Keep the owl." Annie smiles. "It's old and wise."

* * *

The first training session Mags holds with Annie is indoors. She starts by giving the girl a history of the first rebellion, which is safe to do under surveillance.

“I was four when we lost. The Hunger Games started the following year. My mother had died in the front lines. I was raised by my father, a wounded veteran, after that. Actually, he was in prison briefly and I was left with a neighbor, but they let him go in the end, and I was too young to really remember that part.

“The entire thing was ill-advised. I mean, it's easy to say that in hindsight, but it was too rushed and too disorganized, given the disparity in resources. The rebels had no chain of command: when a leader died, that was it. The districts are fragmented, so it's easy to keep them isolated, cut off from military support, communication, and exchange of goods. No one was doing logistics. We had no insights into the capabilities, much less the plans, of the Capitol.

“We had rage boiling over. They had an organization.”

“They had, and still have, vastly superior weapons,” Annie adds.

Mags is proud of her for phrasing her question that way. _What are we going to do about their weapons?_ Annie really has gotten the hang of the doublespeak.

“Exactly,” Mags says. “We have spears. They have firebombs. They wiped out Thirteen, and it's not like that district's going to magically resurrect after all these years.”

Annie raises her eyebrows in astonishment. _Really?_

“And District Four, what can we do?” Mags asks rhetorically. “Throw fish at them?”

Annie giggles, but she looks down when Mags' hand idly taps the couch, one, two, three times. Annie hesitates, then briefly raises three fingers, in an equally casual gesture. _District Three._

“So all we have now is the Hunger Games. Which reminds me,” Mags adds. “I've never asked you for money, because you didn't attend the academy, but I make all the victors, even Brine and Octavius, donate a portion of their earnings to the academy. How do you think we feed all those students? So if you're interested in supporting our tributes-”

“I am. Though I'm also supporting my family,” Annie cautions.

“Most people are. I did, when I still had family, and Finnick would, but...” She's not sure how much Annie knows.

Annie nods. “He's told me. They must be the only people in the district who would walk away from money on the table.”

“Principles,” Mags sighs, resigned. “Anyway, the rule for Careers is that you keep enough to live comfortably—you've earned it—and to send home to any family who aren't living with you in the Village, and the rest goes to the academy. You, of course, as a non-Career, have the option of donating as much or as little as you want.”

“I'd like to help,” Annie says. Together, they go over the numbers, and when Annie's satisfied she'll be able to continue eating dessert and not leaving the house to run errands, she signs the rest off to Mags.

Their second meeting takes place on the water. Annie rows, because Mags tires easily these days.

“I have to warn you, there's not a lot you can _do_. All any of us are doing is learning as much as we can, and communicating what we learn. And there are very few people in the know, because my hardest job has honestly been keeping the revolution from breaking out prematurely. Most of the people in the inner circle are victors.

“Donn was the hardest to tame, until he was married with his first child on the way, and then his taste for war faded. Now he's mellowed out, and is content to let me do it my way.

“Rudder, I'm lucky wanted a militia to train and then lead. If he were determined to start a war at the age of twenty, I'm not sure I could have stopped him. I'm also lucky that Finnick put up no resistance to the idea of a well-planned and long-delayed revolution. He jumped into intelligence gathering for me with enthusiasm, and he proudly lays his findings at my feet each year.

“It may be because I raised him, but he’s got a caution that you usually don’t see in Careers. This is, after all, the boy who wanted to explore the arena and lay traps for days before making his first kill, and for a full week before beginning to confront the Career pack.

“Brine doesn't know what we're up to, nor is he allowed to. He works in the academy with the trainees, and, like the trainees, all he knows is the importance of winning the Hunger Games.

“There are a few non-victors in the inner circle. You'll meet them. But we've got so many people in the district who aren't afraid of Peacekeepers the way they're meant to be. You've been through some training, you look at the nearest Peacekeeper harassing you, and you think, _One on one, I could take him, or her._ Only the presence of ten other Peacekeepers in the vicinity stops you. For now.

“Part of our job is to keep a lid on the enthusiasm for war to keep it from boiling over, without letting the fire die out completely. I can't keep having Careers band together and pick fights with Peacekeepers. It's happened a couple of times, but we do our best at the academy to discourage it.”

“What will you do if they shut down training completely? It's technically illegal.”

Mags grimaces. This is the stuff of her nightmares. “I think if we just keep from provoking them, they'll keep looking the other direction. The Capitol wants a show, and the districts that have the most training put on the best show. Look at what happens when they don’t get what they want, like the year the Careers didn’t stand a chance because you can’t kill snow with a spear. I can teach them the signs of hypothermia and teach them to make a fire, but I can’t give them tolerance to the cold. I didn’t even _know_ about snow caves. So, no, I think they’ll let us. We just have to behave.”

“Careers probably aren't prone to behaving, though,” Annie says ruefully.

“Too true. That's why I'm glad you're here: I need as many people in the know as I can get, whose discretion I trust.”

Annie winks. “I promise not to run out and start any fires.”

That gets a smile from Mags.

“Though I can't promise I'll be much use in the front lines when the time comes.”

Mags shakes her head. “I have hundreds, maybe thousands of people for that. Leadership goes to people with intelligence and foresight, and I only have a handful of those.”

“Am I going to end up as a leader?” Annie looks surprised and nervous.

“What exactly you'll be ready for when the time comes, I can't say yet. But what I will need from you is a sort of leadership. You won't have to take responsibility and make decisions for groups of people if that's not for you. But we need everyone pushing in the same direction, and you're a public figure. If you stand up, along with all the other victors and former mayors and anyone else who'll be recognized, and say you support the new leadership and you have confidence in the outcome of the war, you will be filling a desperately needed niche.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“That's my girl,” Mags says encouragingly. “And the other thing I need from you, starting now, is make yourself known to the inner circle, and to learn as much as you can.”

“Finnick says they tend to come to his evening parties.”

Mags nods. “There's more than one reason for those. So he'll introduce you, and I'll start coming and I'll introduce you. You'll probably end up talking to most of them in a public setting, so you'll have to play doublespeak.”

“I can read between the lines,” Annie assures her. “And anything I miss because I'm new...Finnick's been telling me things when he whispers in my ear.”

“He's been able to work wonders. He has whole avenues of operation that aren't even open to me.”

Annie grins. “Should I start being a...playgirl?”

She's joking, but Mags answers with utter seriousness, “You wouldn't be the first. Romantic pretenses are the single best way of transmitting information secretly. If you decide you want to start playing the field, let us know.”

“Well, if I can stop being afraid of people...One other thing. How do you know this boat isn't bugged?”

“We built it ourselves,” Mags answers. “I approve of your caution.”

“Okay. I can build boats too, if you need someone.”

“Oh really? Is that what you used to do?”

Annie confirms, and they spend the rest of the outing talking about her old job. Mags is glad Annie's started talking to her, glad she's feeling better and they can finally be friends, and glad to have her in the inner circle.

* * *

Despite Mags' disclaimer that nothing is happening, per se, Annie's overwhelmed by the amount of organization in the district. She meets Benton, whose revolutionary job will be logistics. Tucked in a corner of Finnick's dining room, surrounded by talk and laughter, Annie and Benton make small talk about his day job, which is to ensure the district brings in the quotas of seafood set by the Capitol.

Benton laments the many accidents at sea, and the huge percentage of the population that’s required to bring in a relatively small amount of food from the sea. Annie remembers what Finnick said about culling the herd, and puts that together with some of the shoddy materials she was given to build boats. She remembers being orphaned by the capsizing of the boat her mother was on. The regulations are designed to keep the population busy, fighting the elements instead of the Capitol.

From all of this, she interprets Benton's words to mean that when he’s in charge, fishing will get a lot more efficient and safe.

But he has even bigger issues on his mind. If grain, meat, and vegetables stop coming from Districts Nine through Eleven, it will be important to have a reliable substitute for the nutrients.

“Can you not live on fish alone?” Annie asks, and he shakes his head grimly.

“We’ve tried. Everyone who did started showing signs of poor health not long after, so we had to get them off that diet. If there’s a way of making it work, we haven’t found it. I’ve been pushing for more of an emphasis on foraging among the trainees.”

It all makes sense to Annie, but then she hears a different viewpoint when discussing it with Finnick later.

“District Four inland is an unpopulated desert,” he says impatiently. She can tell he's had this argument with the others before. “It's not abounding in what it takes to feed an entire population, we don't know how to recognize the food it does hold, and we won't have the resources to get everything we can out of it. We're only going to be able to hold the coast when the time comes. We need to concentrate on getting food from Nine, Ten, and Eleven. The desert is a red herring, and we're wasting our time on it.”

Strong feelings. “Your way sounds more complicated,” Anne points out.

Finnick snorts. “The one thing we're all agreed on is that we're fucked if we don't have the cooperation of at least some of the other districts. We're getting a sense of where the other districts are, and where the major supply lines are. We'll need to seize control of food supplies early on in the war, and if we can blockade the Capitol, so much the better. I know the others think it's too ambitious, but they barely or never get out of Four. I'm making progress.”

The deeper Annie becomes enmeshed in the planning, the more such points of contention she encounters. When she sets out to memorize the chain of command, she hits an ongoing skirmish between Mags and Rudder over who Rudder's second-in-command should be. It will become especially important if he's killed or incapacitated in the fighting.

Mags prefers Donn. “I don't care if he's too old and out of shape to fight, he can make good decisions. One warrior more or less doesn't make a difference. One good leader does.”

Rudder is strongly backing the younger and more gung-ho Elspa. “She has presence, she has skill, she has the love of the trainees. She volunteered when she was eighteen but lost out because we had two female volunteers that year.”

“Does she know what's coming?” Annie wonders.

Rudder shrugs. “Doesn't matter. By the time we need her, she'll know.”

Mags frowns, and later says privately to Annie, “It'll just come down to which of us survives the other. If I'm dead when the day comes, he'll name his own successor publicly. If he falls in battle and I'm around to make that decision, guess who's going to be running the show. I wish we could have as formal a chain of command as our enemy, but that's not possible with the need for secrecy. I do the best I can.”

Meeting Pearleye, former mayor, is the last straw for Annie. She seems old to Annie, with her greying hair and crow’s-feet, but to Mags she must seem very young. She’s a tall, angular woman, louder and more forceful than Mags. She trained in her youth but never volunteered, and served a stint as mayor ten or so years back. Because of her status, Pearleye is one of the people whose visibility matters.

Fortunately, Finnick and Mags had already warned her that the former mayor is blunt and outspoken, because Pearleye opens with, “We had our doubts about you being stable, but Finnick convinced Mags that he hadn’t just lost his head over you, and Mags’ good opinion is enough for me.”

Annie blinks, taken aback. “Um, thank you?” Under the intent gaze, she certainly feels like she’s still on trial, notwithstanding Mags’ opinion.

“Mind you,” Pearleye continues, “that’s the only reason I'm willing to believe _he’s_ reliable. He doesn’t take anything seriously, that playboy persona is a little too convincing if you know what I mean, and he never stops showing off. Does he drive you as crazy as he drives me?”

If she didn’t know how much tension the humor masked, Annie might have had the same experience as Pearleye, but she’s reached out to comfort Finnick one too many times. “He’s solid,” is all she says, with an edge in her voice warning the other woman to back off.

“So Mags says,” Pearleye concedes with a shrug.

After the party, Annie helps Finnick clean up. Not looking up from the plate she's scraping into the trash, she says in a tone that brooks no argument, “We're going out tomorrow.”

Finnick, dragging chairs across the floor, silently goes over his schedule in his head. “Sure. I'll skip my stint on the water.”

No sooner are they settled together on a blanket, snuggling, then Annie bursts out with, “This is crazy! We have ten people in the know, and you guys can't agree on anything.”

“Ten people, six hundred life-or-death issues, six thousand strong opinions.” Finnick laughs.

“Do you know what Pearleye said about you?” Annie demands.

Finnick grunts. “If it's the same thing she always says, then yes. Look, it's just a personality conflict. If you get out more, you'll see how many people I rub the wrong way. Mags trained her, she's going to be Mags' successor at strategy, and she knows what she's doing. Don't be surprised if she ends up outranking Rudder.”

“I won't be surprised if this whole thing goes up in flames and squabbling. You're going to need someone to sit you all down and make you cooperate.”

“Sounds like we have a volunteer.” Finnick twines her hair around his fingers, and she can feel his pride washing over her.

Annie wants to say yes, but for this feeling that she's biting off more than she can chew. “When do you think this is going to happen?”

“Not for years,” Finnick assures her. “You have time. And I'll back you, even if it means biting my tongue now and again.”

“All right. I am getting better, slowly, and more confident,” Annie tells him. “I don't think I can go back to where I was before I was reaped, but I think I can move forward.”

“I can't believe how far you've come,” Finnick marvels. “You're looking better every day.” His hands trace an appreciative path down her body, outlining her figure.

Annie laughs. “I think I officially passed over into plump a while back and am in the fast track to fat. That's what I get for living on dessert.”

“Every time I've been gone, and I come back to see you've put on more weight, all I can think is that we're finally doing right by you.”

“'We'?” Annie asks. As she sees it, she's only been indulging herself, trying to counter the years of deprivation before the arena, and the years of suffering since.

“Oh, I don't know.” Finnick shrugs. “I'm just trying to put a feeling into words. 'We' the people who watched you get reaped? 'We' the people who take you out for dessert and let you eat ours?”

She nudges him affectionately. “Well, there's only one of you in the second category.”

“So far,” Finnick teases. “You need to take up with more Careers who don't eat dessert.”

“A sound dating strategy,” she laughs. “I mean it, though. The dessert's been helping, you've been helping, and you know? All this planning, and finding out what everyone else is planning, is helping.”

Even if Four's approach to the Games means they don't always get a volunteer, and even if that leads to Reapings like Annie's, it's some small comfort to know someone is fighting back. If nothing else, she's been telling herself insistently, again and again, it means she was a soldier even when she was falling to pieces in the arena. It doesn’t help a lot, but it helps a little, especially with the nightmares. She's even dreamed she's in the arena laughing at the Careers, because she knows something they don’t know.

Finnick's pleased to hear of this dream, of course, and it doesn’t strike him as at all surprising. “We’re less cowed than the other districts. Not because the people are inherently any braver, but because we’ve been given the tools to be more than victims.”

Annie wants to be more than a victim. “After we met,” she confesses, “I was convinced you must think I was weak. You were reaped even younger, and you made winning look easy.”

“It’s never easy,” Finnick tells her. “I only gave my Flickerman interview the day I came out of the arena because the Careers like to compare notes on how quickly they recovered. Being in good enough shape to give your interview the same night is a point of pride. When no one was looking, I was coating my mouth with an analgesic spray the doctors gave me. I’d pretend I was slipping off to throw up food, when I was secretly numbing my mouth and throat as far as I could and still be able to talk. I was _crying_ with how much it hurt to eat, and it went on for weeks. I never told Mags; I just said they fixed me.”

Jokingly, Annie props herself up on one elbow on the blanket so she can lean in to pretend-kiss it better—with tongue. She wonders momentarily if this is the kind of flirtatious behavior Finnick gets all the time, but she can feel the gratitude in his arms as he reaches around her, pulling her close. They understand each other. She can’t go around refusing to do anything with him, just because he gets it so cheaply elsewhere.

“Still, that was only physical, and temporary,” Annie argues, when they’ve returned to words. “You managed to hide it so no one could tell.”

Finnick shakes his head emphatically. “You don’t go to the Capitol, so you don’t know: everyone’s hiding something. The alcohol and morphling addicts we all know, but I promise you, there are other victors in worse shape than you. You think Districts One and Two have it made, but the rumors of suicides and attempted suicides are phenomenal. You’re not weak. You’re brave.”

“So if everyone’s got problems, what makes me the brave one?” Annie asks. Knowing that Finnick respects her helps. Knowing that other people are falling apart too doesn’t.

“You’re not hiding it. You’re fighting it. You’re getting better, not worse. I’m not condemning anyone else; they have less support. But I’m allowed to admire you every time you practically pry yourself off the door jamb to go eat scones with me. Trust me, you’re more of a fighter than half the warriors that come out of One and Two.”

“I have had support,” Annie says with feeling. “Mags...you don’t know what she did for me those first few months, before you started coming to visit. She was there, every day, mothering me and pushing me back onto my feet at the same time.”

“I’d have had a lot worse than a cankered mouth if not for Mags.” His eyes are tender and full of dread at once, while he imagines what this country would have done to a fourteen-year-old on his own. Then his shield of humor comes up, and he winks at Annie lasciviously while licking his lips. “Good thing they fixed it, though, right?”

“Seeing as how you like the sound of your own voice so much,” Annie teases, “good thing.”

“You like it,” Finnick taunts her. “You like it more. Admit it.”

“Make me,” Annie taunts back, because she knows he can. When he pulls her into his arms and starts murmuring, she’s happier than she’s ever been.

He’ll talk throughout the foreplay every time, and when he gets too incoherent for words, she delights in the sounds she can get him to make. She loves him pleading, loves him desperate, and would do anything to hear him say her name like this just one more time.

The best part about District Four, in Annie’s opinion...fine, they’re organizing a rebellion in secret. But after that, it’s that the weather is always so cooperative with going on excursions to row and take long walks and have picnics, in which you can plot your rebellion freely _and_ have outdoor sex with your boyfriend. Assuming you don’t work sixty-hour weeks, that is. Getting away from auditory surveillance is one advantage the victors have in their organizing.

But right now, Finnick’s voice in Annie’s ear is the only advantage she cares about. There’s probably a camera in one of the trees around here, but the whole world has seen her go mad. A few Peacekeepers watching her have sex when they review the tapes is nothing in comparison.

She’s reminding herself of this when the palm of Finnick’s hand brushes the bare skin of her lower back under her shirt. Annie cries out and jolts back involuntarily. A second later, she realizes she’s just kicked him, hard, in the shin.

Now Finnick’s eyes are squeezed shut as he physically restrains himself from attacking back, or cradling her, or both. She’s holding herself aloof, feeling tense, sick, embarrassed, and furious all at once. The fact that she’s with the one person who understands reflexes only makes it marginally better.

“It’s all right,” he finally manages to gasp out, when he can speak.

“I know,” Annie moans. She knows it’s true, and she almost believes it. “I just—ugh. I hate this.” It’s not the first time she’s done this, or something like it, to him.

They wait until Annie recovers a little more, and she moves carefully back onto the blanket. She makes no move to touch him yet, though. Finnick’s watching her intently for signs of how she’s doing, but he gives her space. Annie wants to kiss him for that alone. Then she realizes she can, if she gestures with her hand that he needs to hold still for it.

How can she trust him this much and still not be able to relax in his arms?

Annie kisses him briefly, for as long as she can. Then she gives him a reassuring smile, and though it’s shaky, it eases the atmosphere as she intended.

“It's looking like my body has objections to being touched, and that’s a real problem for sex,” she concludes, with as much humor as she can muster. “Yet you can do it. What do I have to do, sleep with five hundred people before I get used to it?”

When Finnick’s done laughing, he rolls over on his back to face the sky. She’s glad that, if she had to ruin the mood, he at least considers laughter an acceptable substitute for sex. The frantic knotting in her stomach starts to loosen a little.

“No, but it means you’re going to have to take the lead.”

Annie thinks about it. He’s right, she has no problem touching him, and no problem with wanting sex, but out of the blue, some unexpected touch that was fine before suddenly won’t be fine. She doesn’t know how to “take the lead,” though. She only knows sex as two people, touching each other, suggesting things, trying things out—together.

“I did fine last time,” she complains. “We had sex, and I didn’t panic. I can’t even tell you ‘don’t do this’ or ‘don’t do that.’ It's totally random, and it’s driving me crazy.”

“Sometimes I can sleep the night through, some nights I can’t.” Finnick shrugs. “There’s always been an element of randomness.”

“You know, I was determined not to put you in this position. I knew I didn’t have as much experience as you, but I thought I had a pretty good grounding in theory and could pull this off without fuss.”

“Oh, did you? May I ask where all this theory came from?” Finnick teases.

“Sharing a room with three older sisters,” Annie answers confidently. “We lay around gossiping after bedtime when we were supposed to be sleeping. By the time my aunt got around to giving me the sex talk, I was already convinced I knew things she didn’t. And it’s not like I never got frisky with any of the boys I liked. So I thought, even if I wasn’t the playboy of Panem, I wasn’t exactly the blushing virgin either.”

“I’m impressed with your sisters. No, your technique and enthusiasm are fine. We’re still figuring out what we like with each other, but you kicking me is clearly a reflex born in the arena.”

“I was hoping you had some magic sex strategy that would solve it,” Annie says, half-seriously, and then she glances quickly at him to be sure she’s not treating him as a sex object.

Finnick’s both sticking his tongue out at her and seriously trying to think of an answer. “Well, since you didn’t like my first solution...”

“No, it might work,” she says. “I just don’t want it to be another experience where it’s your job to set your own needs aside and do whatever it takes to make sure the other person enjoys herself.”

Now Finnick is staring at her. “Sometimes I swear you can see right inside me,” he says wonderingly. “What makes you say that?”

Annie realizes he hasn’t actually told her that in so many words. She’s just been assuming it. “Well, you’ve told me why you sleep around. If you're there for information and they're there for pleasure, it has to be all about what they want. Whether they're paying or not. Unless by chance you had exceptional chemistry with someone...and even then you have to be careful not to give anything away. No, it’s obvious.”

“You’re right, you know.” Finnick turns over again and buries his face in her hair, where it’s fanned out across the blanket. “I have to keep a tight rein on my desires, and I can never let go. At least not in the Capitol. It’s easier here, though, no, I haven’t found anyone with whom I have exceptional chemistry.”

“And I wasn’t counting on that between us either, but I at least wanted it to be two people here for pleasure and no other reason. Now, instead, I’ve got you tiptoeing around startling me...and I feel like you get enough crap already from my madness, with me pushing you away on my bad days, and not letting you get too close even on the so-called good days...”

Finnick shakes his head, not arguing but reassuring. “I told you, I value the honesty. And right now, I value you paying that much attention and reading between the lines.”

“Well.” Annie sighs. “If you want to wait until I can guarantee not kicking you...we can do that.”

“It’s up to you,” Finnick says. “It’s just a question of how much distress it causes you. I’m fine with starting again if we get interrupted, but if it’s hell for you, then you can take as much time as you need.”

“I do hate being startled,” Annie admits.

Finnick nods emphatically. “It makes _me_ nauseated.”

“It’s not the nausea. Oh, I do feel sick. But you said your mind knows everything is fine and you just need your body to catch up. I still...some part of my brain is still telling me everything is a threat and I’m going to die. And not even in so many words. Just a conviction that nothing I tell myself seems to shake. Ninety-nine percent of the time when I’m having an episode, I know I’m in District Four, I know who you are, and I know the Games are over. I just can’t convince myself it’s safe to move.”

“And nothing I do makes it safe?” Finnick asks gently.

“Sometimes. Especially when you talk me back into a place where the world is predictable. Or when it’s only a light scare and you help me laugh it off. But sometimes, no, nothing gets through, or not all the way, and it’s not your fault. If you could tell me that there’s no reason to be this afraid, then I could tell myself that, and I wouldn’t be mad in the first place, and all my problems would be solved.

“If I were all the way mad, then I’d think it was perfectly reasonable to react the way I do. Or I’d genuinely believe I’m in the arena all the time, but no. I’ve only had a couple episodes where I lost track briefly of where I was. Or when I wake up and it takes a few minutes to be sure of what’s the dream and what’s reality,” she adds.

“I have that one too. Probably not as bad,” he admits. “But I think we all have it at least sometimes.”

“Sure. And if I were completely sane, I could tell myself I’m not getting reaped again, and that I used to leave the house, hold down a job, have friends, and have boyfriends, and that obviously none of that was what got me tortured. But I’m somewhere in between mad and sane, and it fluctuates.”

Finnick toys with the ends of her hair throughout this speech, and because she can’t feel it, the touch doesn’t bother her.

“So is it too much, getting startled?” he asks. “Are you going to start associating sex with feeling like the world is ending?”

Annie takes a deep, shaky breath. “I hope not! If it were just me, I’d keep trying. Keep looking for a way around startling.”

“I’m game,” Finnick says. “Try taking the lead, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.”

“You’re sure?”

“Annie, I’ve enjoyed sex like this before. If you’re sexy and confident when you take the lead, it works wonders.”

Annie laughs. “Really! I had no idea you enjoyed that. Lie down, then. I have ideas.”

* * *

Annie jumps at a knock. She’s got her head and her upper body underneath her sink, while she tightens a bolt.

It takes a few long seconds to decide she wants to answer, or at least look to see who it is. Her first impulse is always to hold perfectly still and claim she was upstairs asleep when the knock came. Mags and Finnick have keys, and she’s asked them just to let themselves in, to keep from putting her in the position of having to make this decision.

It turns out to be Grace, and Annie lets her in. Things are still awkward between them, but they're working at it. Annie's unsure how much of Grace's desire to try again as sisters is guilt, but she's lonely enough to be willing to give it a try anyway.

“You were always good at this,” Grace reminisces, as she sits on a stool and watches Annie finish fixing the leak. “You used to go over to the neighbors’ and help fix their stuff.”

Annie smiles. It’s both painful and reassuring to remember that she once had a life that involved leaving the house and doing something constructive, even interacting with strangers.

“I like working with my hands,” is all she says.

“Do you fix everything in the Victors’ Village?” Grace asks.

“No, but...” Annie gets thoughtful. “I should, shouldn’t I? There are only a few of us, and I know everyone.”

“You should!” Grace agrees enthusiastically. Annie can tell she's trying to be as supportive as she can with someone she barely knows any more. The conversation is stiff, but they persevere.

Annie stores the idea away to think about. Octavius is probably the only one she couldn’t handle visiting alone. Rudder may still make her viscerally nervous, but she knows rationally that he probably won’t even talk to her, much less hurt her. Brine may make inappropriate comments, but Mags and Finnick have a repressive effect on him. Yeah, she can do this, she tells herself. It’ll be easy once she gets used to it.

“You mentioned you have kids?” Annie asks, continuing the fishing for innocuous topics.

“Two boys. Little hellions.” Grace’s pride belies her words.

Two boys in two years. Annie’s impressed. Grace was seeing someone seriously when Annie last knew her, and she must have gotten pregnant the moment she escaped the last Reaping bowl. Or the night before—that's not uncommon.

“Daring,” Annie marvels. “How much sleep do you get?” She’s managing to say the right things on automatic, but old memories are pelting her faster than she can keep up with.

“ _We had three kids, well spaced out. No more than we could afford,” a six-year-old Annie overheard her aunt saying. “My sister had one and no husband. Annie used to come over here and learn to help weave nets while her mother was at work._

“ _If someone had shown up at my door two years ago saying my sister had been lost at sea, I would absolutely not have taken another child in. It wouldn’t have been fair to my own. But when the news came, she was already here_. _I couldn’t quite put her out onto the street.”_

With laughter that’s just as forced as Annie’s smile, Grace answers by shaking her head until her brown curls fly around her face. Sleep—not much. “The baby’s just starting to cut teeth. It’s _crazy_. It's Diver's turn to watch them this evening, so I came to visit you.”

“Tell him thank you from me, then.”

A look of pain crosses Grace’s face. “Annie, I don’t know how to say this, but the money helps. If you need it, we can manage without it, but it helps. Thank _you_.”

“I don’t need it,” Annie assures her, sharing the same pain. “I’m glad.” She keeps enough to pay the district kids to bring her food, do her laundry, and the like; to pursue her hobbies, like woodworking; and to send some to her aunt. The rest goes to Mags, for the revolution.

But Grace isn’t done.

"I'm sorry we didn't come," she bursts out, with the tone of someone who's been steeling herself to say this and dreading it. She doesn’t need to say what who “we” are or what they didn’t come to: Annie went off to the Hunger Games with only Mags for support. "Mother didn't want us to, and I felt horrible and I didn't know what to say, but what I was feeling wasn't important. I should have come to see you off anyway."

Maybe Grace is the one feeling guiltiest because she was eighteen, still young enough to be reaped, when Annie's name, entered thirty-seven times, was drawn instead of hers, entered only once per year. Their two older sisters were out of the woods as far as the Hunger Games were concerned.

_Then you watched me go mad on screen._

It's excruciating, knowing everyone in the world saw you snap when you got your partner killed, and watched you fall apart in Caesar's studio after that. On the other hand, everyone's been so _nice_ about it. It doesn't make it easier to live with the madness, but it does make her less afraid of reaching out to people.

"It was...difficult for everyone," Annie says. Not making excuses for her, but not heaping blame on her for something that's past. "Come by sometimes now, though, if you want?"

"I will," Grace promises. "I did, after you came home. They turned me away at your door. Donn, I think."

Annie makes a face. "I was in pretty bad shape. I still am, sometimes, so if I don't answer, don't take it personally. But I'd like to have more company. I don't get out much." She wrinkles her nose and doesn't need to say why. They both understand.

Just then, the front door opens. Annie's facing it, and Grace turns around to see Finnick stepping in. He spots Grace, and stops with one foot over the threshold. "You're having guests?" At first he looks disappointed, for they haven’t seen each other for months, since before the Hunger Games began. Then he looks very delighted to see her nudging herself out of her shell.

Annie smiles warmly. "Come by later. Bring scones."

Finnick grins at their old joke, nods his head politely at Grace, and closes the door again.

Grace turns back to face Annie. Two bright pink spots dot her cheeks. "You _know_ Finnick Odair? But you must, I hadn't even thought of it!"

Taken aback, Annie blinks before realizing that she was going to get this reaction from someone eventually. She spends too much time with the victors and forgets.

Annie shrugs, not knowing where to start, and Grace groans deeply. "Oh, don't tell me he's disappointing in person. Celebrities always are, it's terrible."

Laughing, Annie shakes her head. "It's not that. It's just that...the exciting parts of his life don't happen in the Victors' Village. Here he's just one of us, and he knows what it's like."

Neither of them wants to explore "what it's like" to be put in the arena and come home again, and live with it for the rest of your life, so Grace sticks with safer topics. "Come on! More exciting parts of his life need to happen in your house. Those girls in the Capitol have got _nothing_ that you don't have. I'll help." She studies Annie's face carefully. "We'll spruce you up a bit, maybe some makeup...You have nice eyes, we need to call attention to them. Your hair is perfect, don't touch it."

"You're crazy," Annie says affectionately. It's just like they're girls again, giggling over the latest boy they've decided is cute. She might have been the outsider of the family, but they were hardly strangers, and this is one of her good memories with Grace.

" _You_ are!" Grace retorts, and she's so caught up in the moment that she doesn't even flinch away from saying it to Annie. "Do you _remember_ when he won?" She fans herself dramatically.

"I was eleven," Annie protests. "Boys still had cooties."

"Oh, I was thirteen, and whatever that boy had, it wasn't cooties. This is your chance! We have to make our move now, before he starts thinking of you as a sister."

They look at each other, laughing helplessly. Annie doesn't know her well enough to even begin to explain her relationship with Finnick, but at least the ice between her and Grace is well and truly broken.

"Look," Annie finally says, between hiccups. "Next time there's a party at his house, I'll invite you. You can come as my guest. I'll introduce you. You can even hit on him if you want." Grace may be married, but flirting with Finnick is widely considered a harmless pastime.

Grace giggles. "I'll sit in the corner and not dare to say anything. Really?"

"Absolutely," Annie promises.

Disbelieving, Grace shakes her head. "Are you--no. I was going to ask if you're a lesbian, but surely he's the kind of guy you make an exception for! He's pretty enough."

They share their laughter again, having found the one starting point for getting to know each other that they're both comfortable with: being silly together.

"I'm not. Just...accept that I'm crazy," Annie says matter-of-factly, "and go from there." It's as good an explanation as any. If she hadn't been through hell and ended up with the one person who could understand, she'd probably be as starstruck as anyone.

Later, she laughs over it with Finnick, as they catch up.

"She'll get over it," Finnick predicts. "They all do."

"I tend to forget how the rest of Panem sees you," Annie confesses. She and Finnick share a look of wordless understanding. "You've never been my fantasy. You're my reality. You keep me grounded when nothing else can."

"Annie." Finnick's voice wavers, and he takes her hands in his, kissing them. "That means the world to hear."

Hearing that gladdens Annie's heart in turn, to have given him something. Part of the reason she can't begin to explain anything to Grace is that she doesn't know herself where she stands with Finnick, whether he's simply not capable of settling down, as everyone thinks; or whether her pushing him away on bad days will one day override her welcome on good days, as she fears; or whether this might actually last. All she knows is that it's too fragile to be bandied about in terms of a fantasy.

"It hadn't occurred to me that people would think this was so inevitable: both victors, about the same age..." She doesn't mind Finnick's countless affairs, but she does feel a twinge of resentment at being categorized as another notch in his belt.

"For what it's worth, I didn't think it was inevitable." Finnick puts his arm around her shoulder, squeezing. "You surprised me. You still surprise me."

Annie shifts over and swings one of her legs over his, so they're sitting side by side and she's half in his lap. "Should I?"

"Should you what?" Finnick's fingers run through the waves of long hair cascading down her back and over his chest. She doesn’t think she’s missed this quite as much as he has, but close.

"Dress up more. Put on makeup. She said I need more confidence, and you're always saying that, so..."

"Whatever makes you feel comfortable in your own skin, really," Finnick advises. "I have two personas. One wears makeup, and the other doesn't. Both get results."

That's good advice, Annie thinks. He often says that there are better-looking people than him, better-looking victors even, and no one remembers them, because it's the sheer force of his personality that makes itself felt.

"What if I don't know what makes me feel comfortable?" she asks.

"Then you experiment. Find something that works for you. Try things on for me, if you want,” Finnick offers. “You'll know when you're comfortable, and I'll notice. It shows on your body, in how you carry yourself."

Then Finnick sighs, breaking the mood. “I wish I didn’t have the slightest urge to tell you not to show your confidence where the wrong people can see it.”

“Hard year?” Annie says sympathetically, wondering how his visit to the Capitol went.

“Not for me. For everyone I met. If your life isn’t already ruined, like Haymitch-”

“Or me.”

He sighs again. “Then they’ll find a way to ruin it. I got off easy because I had warning. But the things I’ve seen and the secrets I have to keep...the easy cases are the ones where I can advise them to keep faking whatever problem they’ve just shaken. When they’re surrounded by sociopaths, and they’ve been shamed into thinking they deserve everything that’s happened to them, and they don’t even know abuse when they’re living it, and it’s not even a district I can reach out to...”

“Hard year,” Annie concludes. She hugs him, knowing better than anyone how to comfort him.

“I feel like nothing I do even makes a dent.”

“Short term, or long term?”

“Short term, I guess,” he says reluctantly. “Long term, I have to believe what I’m doing is making a difference.”

He can say no more under the surveillance of a house in the Victors' Village, but Annie has some idea what it's like for him. Watching starvation at home, going to the Capitol to wallow in luxury, and seeing the adults that tortured children in the arena turned into...

Still with his arms around her and his chin on her shoulder, Finnick gives a deep sigh from the bottom of his soul. “Sometimes I don't even know who I am,” he confesses.

He can't openly admit that the playboy persona is supposed to be an act either, but Annie knows that it's an act that runs deep, and that part of him feels guilty for enjoying his other life.

“I know who you are,” is the best comfort she can find.

Finnick laughs a little. “And then I come home to the one person who literally _forgets_ how the rest of the world sees me. Do you even know I'm good-looking?”

What Annie knows is that he's not teasing. She's refused to watch television ever since her Games, so she misses out on all his Capitol appearances. “I don't think that you're _not_ ,” she begins, trying to articulate this. She pulls out of his arms and turns to get a good look at him. He watches her eyes trace over his body. “I know every mark on your skin, your every mood, and every inch of your body language. But in order to get myself into the 'wow, you're hot' mindset, I have to take a mental step back, forget everything I know, and try to put myself in the shoes of someone who's dazzled. It's like I'm living in the forest, so all I can see are trees.”

“That's not how it feels to me. To me it feels like you have x-ray vision; that you're incapable of seeing the surface, the superficial. You're the one who not only can see inside me, you can't see anything else. That's why I come home to you every year.”

“I'm sorry I was busy earlier,” she apologizes. “You want dinner?”

“I'm glad you were busy. You looked happy. I always want dinner.”

Laughing, Annie goes off to the kitchen. Unusually, Finnick doesn't follow her to lend a hand. When she returns to announce that she’s got some some apples and onions fried with sausages cooling on the stove, he's stretched out sound asleep.

She moves quietly to his side. There's no point in trying not to wake him, but equally she doesn't want to shock him awake with a loud noise. His eyes flutter open at her approach, and he looks around slowly, remembering where he is. Annie smiles down at him, and once he's taken in his surroundings, Finnick returns the smile. He lifts his head, making room for her to sit. She eases his head back down, cradling it on her lap, and she slides her fingers through his hair while he drifts back into sleep.

He's always like this—working himself to exhaustion, then collapsing all at once wherever he is—but it's intensified after a visit to the Capitol. From high-profile bed to high-profile bed, with an occasional bid for privacy in a cheap hotel.

None of it compares to Annie's couch.

She knows he wants more than that. She wants to be capable of more than that. But the prospect of having someone else in the house round the clock, when she's not geared up into “have guests” mode...it's still too much.

Watching the strands of Finnick's hair woven among her fingers, holding perfectly still to let him sleep as long as possible, Annie gives in to the bitterness she can usually hold at bay. She wants some part of her life to be untouched by the madness. She wants to have sex, visit her sister's children, let Finnick stay the night, go into town without help, _something,_ without this crippling fear that haunts her every step. But no matter where she goes, or what facet of her life she's dealing with, the fear is in her head, and her head goes everywhere with her.

After about fifteen minutes, Finnick stretches slowly. Then he turns on his side, and pulls his feet back over the edge of the couch, but leaves his head where it is under Annie's hand, inviting her caresses.

She obliges, seeking to soothe herself as much as him, while she tries to think of something she can safely commit to.

Finally, Annie begins, hesitantly, “I can't offer you more than this, but...if you want to stay the evening-” She carefully avoids saying _night_ , and Finnick almost succeeds in hiding his disappointment. She feels like she’s walking on ice, and Finnick’s looking at her like he’s waiting for the ice to crack and both of them to fall in. “You can sleep on the couch for a bit,” she concludes, “and I'll feed you.” She adds the last, though it's nothing out of the ordinary for them, simply to counter this feeling that she's being stingy.

Then she waits to see how he'll react. She's not concerned that he'll be angry. She's concerned that he'll pretend like he wants nothing more, or worse, turn down the offer like it means nothing.

She's trained him better than that, though. “Honesty?”

“You know it,” she tells him.

“You're brave,” Finnick says. It's the last thing in the world she expected to hear. “I meant it when I said you're more of a fighter than half the Careers.”

“I was feeling bad I couldn't offer you more,” Annie says, surprised.

“Let me sleep with my head on your lap a bit longer? And keep reminding me that you know who I am, even when I forget?”

“Oh, Finnick. Always.” Petting away, stroking and soothing, Annie starts to think out loud. “You're not a sociopath, I know that, and I know you worry about it. You're...larger than life. You love your ego trips, but equally you live for a challenge. You have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, and you can't see a problem without wanting to fix it. I wish I could 'be fixed', just like that, because you'd have done it by now.”

She wonders sometimes if that's his interest in her, what keeps him coming back. She knows she has good qualities and that they have good times together, but she also knows him well enough to wonder. But tonight she's just trying to soothe him. Time enough for difficult conversations now that he's home again for a few months.

“You're prone to stepping on toes and trying to take over, but you're also very trainable.”

Finnick smiles, his cheek pressing against her thigh. “Mags trained me well.”

“Yes, so while you think that my life would be better if I could just take all your advice, you do respect people's boundaries once they set them.”

“I do, you know,” he insists. “I wouldn't be giving all this advice if I didn't think it would help.”

“I know,” Annie assures him. “But I think that in order to follow all this advice for solving my problems, I'd have to not have these problems that keep me from being able to follow it. But you help, you do. Mostly when you're doing what I tell you.” She nudges Finnick playfully, and he laughs.

“At your service,” he promises.

“I know you,” Annie repeats, picking up where she'd left off. “I know you have an irrepressible sense of humor at the best of times, but I also know that if you're laughing at something that's rubbing people wrong, you're probably in pain.”

“I won't hold my breath waiting to see if Pearleye figures that out,” Finnick interjects.

“I know that you can act, better than anyone else, when there's a need, but you won't do it just to keep from irritating people. You have the self-discipline that you could make her, and everyone else who frowns on your antics, respect you more, just by playing super-serious whenever you're not on camera. I know you could, but I don't think you should.”

Finnick shakes his head. “I'll do what I have to, play super-interested in the hobbies of whoever I'm currently trying to manipulate, but if I erase my entire personality to please everyone I meet, if I have to turn from an actor on a stage into a fucking chameleon...I will have a mental breakdown.”

“That's why I don't think you should. And that's why I think you should come home and sleep on my couch with your head in my lap.”

“With your x-ray vision,” Finnick adds tenderly.

“I'll keep the x-ray trained on you while you sleep,” Annie promises, and Finnick's eyes drift shut again.


	7. Cashmere

Cashmere sits in her room at the Seventy-Second Hunger Games, staring dully at the lists President Snow gave her yesterday. She gets two now. One is a set of people who are in the know, and who will give her money in return for sleeping with them. The other is a set of people she has to seduce without letting on that they're on a list.

The second one is getting more and more like a scavenger hunt with each passing year. “Hunger Games victor (not previously slept with),” one entry reads.

Cashmere wants to die. She seriously considers it, staring at her lists. How long can she keep these secrets? If anyone finds out, she _will_ die.

But if she kills herself, she’ll be disappointing everyone who coached and cheered her to victory. It will break Gloss’s heart to learn that his adored sister betrayed him like this. Hiding her shame is her only option.

Over the years, she's found, you can get used to anything. Even the need to keep a secret as dark as this.

At the chime of her doorbell, she hastily shoves the papers under the mattress, the only place where she's reasonably sure they won't be discovered. Her pockets aren't safe, as the frisky hands of any of the men flirting with her might find their way in.

When her secret is hidden away, she opens the door, half afraid it's her brother. She and Gloss are so close that she's always fighting to keep him from realizing that something is wrong.

To her relief, it's only Feather, this year's tribute. “I just came to see if you had any advice for me,” she says. She hesitates shyly near the door.

Cashmere knows that's the girl's pride talking, not wanting to admit that she needs comforting. Cashmere's the last person you'd come to for advice, though she's good at teaching athletic skills and weapons. Her reputation, as much as she tries to be as tough on her trainees as her mentors were tough on her, is as the one who gives you a hug and makes you feel better when you're homesick at the academy.

 _You're too soft on them_ , she's told, and she tries to mend her ways. She knows the rigid control of the academy got her through the Hunger Games alive, and she wouldn't dream of knowing better than the organizers of the academy how to turn out victor after victor. But when it's her turn to sit in the control room and scan the video screens of the academy rooms, watching for signs of misbehavior and speaking into the intercom to reprimand any infractions, she can't help her painful empathy with the ones she sees crying.

When she started attending the academy at four, of course she didn't want to let down her parents or her district. But it didn't mean she wasn't also lonely and scared, away from home for the first time and knowing she wouldn't see her family more than a couple weeks a year until she either failed out or won the Hunger Games. She cried in bed too.

Still, maybe having no one to comfort her worked out in the end. Her unusual maturity was always commented on, whereas Gloss, who had his sister to hold him at night in his first months, had a few more behavioral problems.

“ _If you don’t follow the rules, they send you home,” a six-year-old Cashmere whispered frantically to her little brother, trying to avert an incident._

“ _I want to go home!” Gloss cried._

“ _No, no,” she shushed him, looking fearfully around. One trainer was watching the scene with narrowed eyes. “You don't. You’re just homesick. I was homesick too, but there are two of us now. It’ll be okay.”_

_Cashmere stood straight and picked up a dart to throw at the target. Nothing to see here, she thought hard at their trainers, no need to come over._

Even when they were behaving, though, no one told them how their performance measured up to the other children they only caught glimpses of. Penelope was right about one thing. It's hard watching her students in silence, knowing the agony of uncertainty they're going through.

But Cashmere was right to trust that there's a good reason, and after she became a mentor, the reason was finally shared with her. It's the best students who are going to be selected, and they can't afford to coast if they think they're doing well. It makes sense, but she's glad she's not in charge, because she could never make rules like that.

Now, once a trainee becomes a tribute, Cashmere seizes on the chance to make up for lost time. In response to her inviting gesture, Feather comes and sits next to her mentor on the bed. She smiles when Cashmere puts an arm around her shoulder. “You're going to do great,” Cashmere tells her. “We're all so proud of you.” And so on in that vein, until the girl's visibly happier.

“I meant about the sponsors, though,” Feather finally explains, more relaxed now. “You held the record for sponsorship money for several years.”

“Yeah.” Cashmere sighs, resigned. “Finnick.”

“Finnick,” Feather agrees, with grudging admiration. District One has held the record for most of the Games' history, but now it doesn't look like they're going to win it back any time soon. Finnick didn't just edge ahead, he exploded Cashmere's record. No one will ever forget that trident.

“Nervous about tonight?” Cashmere guesses.

“A little,” Feather admits.

“Don't be,” Cashmere assures her. “You've had plenty of training since you were nine: sex appeal, seduction, pleasing a man in bed. All you have to do is what you've been taught.”

“But I know these are the richest men, not the youngest or best looking. What if he's there, and I'm just revolted, and I let everyone down?”

“It's not so bad,” Cashmere says. “You know how to fake enthusiasm. And these men have a lot of experience in bed, which is more important than looks in the end. Pretend he's already saved your life in the arena. If it helps, make up some story in your head about how he did it, and how you're half in love with him already. It's not hard to fall for a man who's saved your life, no matter what he looks like.”

Feather nods. “Thanks, that's good advice.”

Good advice, but Cashmere feels like a hypocrite giving it. Her dirtiest secret is that she's never had to fake enthusiasm, though she too was taught it. And she seeks out sex even when she doesn’t have to. Only President Snow knows.

Once Feather's gone, Cashmere pulls out her lists again from under the mattress and looks carefully at them, starting to plan her strategy.

* * *

As always, her strategy begins with a trip to the official Hunger Games Remake Center. The tributes get first priority, but after that, any mentors who want to get spruced up are welcome to. She sees the regulars as soon as she enters, including most of her fellow victors from District One. There's Marcella, her old mentor, getting a manicure. She smiles at Cashmere when she spots her coming in the door.

Cashmere's first priority is the tanning booth. She's incredibly pale after a year spent indoors at the training academy. Though she has a fine complexion, white skin isn't fashionable, and so she's got to darken it artificially. While she lies on her back, waiting, she entertains herself by looking around the room.

Brutus isn't here, of course. He gets his looks in the gym. He would scorn any attempt to make him pretty. Speaking of which, Finnick _isn't_ here. She doesn't think he ever is. Odd. The old lady—must be older than the Hunger Games themselves–from his district is, though, getting her hair done. You never can tell.

So's the girl from last year. Cashmere's intrigued. Johanna's definitely not pretty, but she never seemed to care. A pixie haircut meant to make her look younger than her eighteen years was the best her stylists could do with her short crop last year. Then she strode around the arena like a man—almost like a Career, Cashmere thought afterwards, watching the replay—not even attempting to look good for sponsors. Now that she's got money and time on her hands, she's grown out a decent head of hair and is telling her stylist exactly what needs to be done with it.

Cashmere doesn't have that kind of self-sufficiency, nor a personality unpredictable enough to intrigue anyone. She has to look good, both to get through her lists, and for her personal secret project of getting a man to claim her. If she can find one who's only interested in sex and isn't looking for intelligence or conversation, and who's possessive enough to put a stop to her sleeping around, maybe she can make an end to these lists. Surely President Snow will understand that she's changed, if she's sexually faithful to a demanding long-term boyfriend (she doesn't dare hope for marriage). She can't control herself, so she needs someone to control her.

She heads from the Remake Center straight to Brutus' room, hurrying lest she be late, like last year. He's physically overpowering, and once upon a time she hoped he would be that rescuer. But while he's domineering enough to control her movements, he's more amused than threatened by her promiscuity. He laughs, calls her a slut, and eggs her on. He doesn't know about her lists, can never know, and so all she can do is laugh along with him, all the while silently shriveling inside.

“You're early.” Brutus smirks when she steps in. “Nowhere else to go?”

Cashmere flushes. She was so sure she'd gotten it right this time, but she's so bad at keeping track of appointments. Thinking fast, she puts her arms around him and nestles her head under his chin. “Couldn't wait to see you,” she murmurs. When he pinches her bottom, she knows she's guessed correctly what he wanted to hear. “I won't take up any of your time,” she promises.

She sits quietly on a chair, content just to be in the same room, until he's ready for her. She likes the way he shows off his strength, when he hauls her effortlessly to her feet and steers her out the door. It makes her hot and weak at the knees to be seized and manhandled, not given any choices. It's why she's volunteering full time at the academy now. Even if she's not physically touched, at least the strict schedule she's used to directs her through her day. The so-called “freedom” after winning the Games was too overwhelming in its open-endedness, and she quickly found her way back into her comfort zone.

“Planning to set new records for bed partners this year?” Brutus teases on their way out. Cashmere instinctively glances around, hoping the corridor is empty and no one's overheard. Does he _know_ how humiliating her weakness is? Does he think she's _proud_ of herself?

“I think Finnick breaks all my records,” she demurs, deflecting the shame, and Brutus roars with laughter.

“That boy,” he marvels, shaking his head with a superior air. “Should have been born a woman. He might know it too...funny thing, all those rumors linking him with Johanna since last year. She's manlier than he is.”

“She's been growing out her hair,” Cashmere observes, not sure why she's speaking up for someone she's never met.

“And he keeps his short,” Brutus retorts, “but there's a lot more to it than that.”

Cashmere looks down, embarrassed that she said anything. “I think you and I got it right,” she says, smiling up at him and reverting to the uncontroversial.

“You sure did,” he says, looking down at her approvingly. “You're a regular doll, all pretty and empty-headed.”

It's true, and she's grateful to him for his patience with her airheadedness. Now early, now late, always losing things...

A few days later, they're entering the viewing area together, after having seen off their tributes to the arena. “Wow, you were right,” she comments. Brutus follows her gaze to where Finnick and Johanna are snuggled up on the District Seven couch, and he laughs his scorn.

“Called it.”

Brutus likes her to sit with him, even when their tributes are killing each other, because her body under his hands more than makes up for it. Also because he likes an audience, especially for his gloating. Even when he's gloating over Feather's death and Cashmere's heart is breaking for the girl—because she can't treat the children as cogs in a machine, no matter what she's been assured is best—being held is better than being alone. Even being pinched hard enough to leave marks is better than being ignored, another cog in the well-oiled machine that is District One.

While he's fondling her, though, she's surveying the room, reconnoitering prospects for her list.

_Hunger Games victor (not previously slept with)_

* * *

Cashmere sits on Finnick's bed, shivering under the intensity of his gaze. He wants something from her, and she's trying desperately to please him, but she doesn't understand what he's after.

"How is Brutus treating you?" he repeats his question.

Cashmere shakes her head, not in answer to the question but out of frustration at her inability to comprehend. "I'm sorry I'm so stupid," she apologizes. The atmosphere is getting tenser by the minute. She wraps her arms around herself and hugs herself, trying to soothe the rising panic. It's just sex, how can she be getting this so wrong? "He wants me?" She takes a stab in the dark that this is what Finnick's looking for, after her previous answers failed to satisfy.

This one fails too, and finally something snaps inside Cashmere.

"And I thought you did, but-" She starts to rise. President Snow will never forgive her if she doesn't get everyone on her list. If Finnick doesn't want her, she'll have to find someone else who qualifies as a "Hunger Games victor" and is just looking for an easy fuck. Maybe she can catch Haymitch or Chaff, or both, drunk enough that they won't question her motives.

"No, no." Finnick reaches out and catches her arm. "I do. It's all right, sit down." He coaxes her back onto the bed. "I do this with everyone, that's all."

"Okay." She's uncertain, but Finnick is pulling her down onto the bed, so she goes along with it. "I'm not very good at this," she admits, trying to revise his expectations. "I'm not very good at conversation." Damn, she's screwed up again, he's going to know she's a prostitute. Why did he have to want to talk to her?

"No, you're doing fine," he soothes. "Come here."

Finnick guides her onto his lap. Finally, they're back on familiar territory, and Cashmere starts getting to work, but again, frustratingly, he stops her. "Not just yet, honey. I like to take my time. I like to take all night and enjoy myself."

His voice is a low croon, which is right for the mood, but he's saying all the wrong things. She's getting mixed messages from him, but maybe he really does just prefer to go slowly. No one's ever wanted to talk to her—or rather, no one's ever wanted her to talk—but everyone's different. Maybe they're going in the right direction and she just needs to play along.

It’s the first time she’s felt this out of depth in bed. Sex training in District One is as important as the weapons training, maybe more so. It works, because they produce more victors than anyone except District Two. Even Four doesn’t come close, for all that Finnick’s the youngest and most famous victor.

Cashmere thought she knew what to expect from him, which is why she came here. Everyone knows what Finnick is like: easy to get into bed, and interested in nothing more once he’s done with you. He should have been the perfect choice. Instead, he’s asking her these incomprehensible questions that aren’t about what she’s willing to do for him.

His questions change tack when she’s enveloped in his arms, talking instead of fucking, and he starts trying to get to know her better.

She's trying to relax, but part of her is staying alert for a sign that he expects something from her. "There's not really much to know. I'm not very bright. I never have much to say. I was the dumb blonde at first, then the dumb jock. I won the Hunger Games in Fifty-Nine, and I still train to keep my looks and to practice with the Careers in District One. That's all, really."

"Did you train Sheer?" The girl herself Cashmere remembers, but it takes her a second to place the year. Sixty-Five, of course—the one who had almost made it home when Finnick, against all odds, clinched the crown for himself. _See_ , she tells herself, _this is why_ _mingling_ _with other districts is a bad idea._ He's going to gloat, just like Brutus.

"I was one of the people who trained her," Cashmere answers cautiously. District One has so many victors that no one person has to take full responsibility for the tributes, for which she's grateful. But she wishes Sheer had come to her to get her nerves settled before going into the arena.

"Did you tell her that if she survived, she'd get a list of people she had to sleep with?"

Cashmere gasps in shock and physically jolts in Finnick's arms. "What?!"

Briefly, he tightens his hold on her. Comforting, but also entrapping, when all she wants is to flee, hide, deny. "It's not just you, sweetheart."

" _All_ of us?" Cashmere's mind is spinning.

"It would hardly work for all of us, but the pretty ones, yeah."

 _Finnick has a list. Finnick has a list._ The words pound and pound inside her head while she tries to grasp them. She can hear him continuing to talk, probably asking her more questions, but she can't focus enough to make out words.

When at last she does, she emerges from the chaos of her mind to a mantra of "It's not just you. It's not your fault. There's nothing you could have done. It's not just you."

“That’s what you think,” Cashmere whispers.

“Nooo,” Finnick croons. He strokes her hair while he soothes her. “No matter what they said you did, if you hadn’t done that, they would have made up something else. You know why I was handed a list?”

Cashmere shakes her head, _o_ _f course not_.

“Because I got too many sponsors and had to repay them. You see? There’s nothing you could have done to keep this from happening. We just have to make the best of what we have.”

His questions after that start to make more sense. He’s trying to give her advice. She still doesn’t always know how to use it, but it’s comforting to have someone telling her what to do.

She’s not taking drugs or drinking immoderately, no. A lot of victors do, and it’s tempting, but she has to keep up her looks even if she doesn’t want to. She’s never been seriously injured by any of her clients or lovers, no. A few bruises, but not as many as she gets through her own day-to-day clumsiness.

“You?” Finnick scoffs. “I don’t believe it. I watched your Games. I _memorized_ your Games.”

Again he surprises her. He’s old enough to have seen them, but she never thought she was memorable. Just another Career winning another bloody victory. “Why?”

“I memorized everyone’s. It was part of my training. Anyway, I don’t believe it. You moved like a panther.”

Cashmere hangs her head. “Well, maybe then. Not any more.”

Finnick makes a dubious sound in his throat but moves on in his questioning. No, she’s told no one else about her lists. Brutus doesn’t know, nor does Gloss. Brutus doesn’t mind that she’s easy, but she has nightmares about disappointing her brother. If any rumors have reached him, he's too loyal to believe them. She doesn’t tell Finnick that that’s what President Snow threatened her with, telling everyone what a slut she is.

“So Brutus isn’t the jealous type?”

“No, just the opposite. He likes to boast about it, have several friends over and show off how I’ll spread my legs for any, or all, of them.”

Wrapped in Finnick’s arms, Cashmere feels his body tense and his hand tighten briefly on her shoulder before he returns to stroking her hair. Probably him realizing that she’s not someone he would tolerate for long.

“I’m pretty lucky,” she tells him. “Most people wouldn’t—I mean, you can’t argue that I’m not that bright, and I promise you I’m clumsier and more forgetful these days, and as for the rest-” Her voice trails off in self-loathing.

Finnick shakes his head. “You’re letting them shame you?”

Once again, she doesn’t understand the question, so she does the best she can. “Brutus isn’t ashamed of me. That’s more than I had any reason to expect.

“I...” She hesitates, but she makes herself say it. “I won’t blame you if you don’t want anything to do with me after all this.”

“You can’t tell that I do?” Finnick teases gently. Sitting on his lap, she knows instantly what he means, and she glances down with him.

“I know that your body does. I know that you, yourself, might still be repelled.”

Finnick sighs. “Yeah, I suppose you’d be the expert on that. No, Cashmere, listen...even before we came here tonight, I was going to make you an offer. We both have lists, and if you want to check me off yours without having to do the work, I’ll vouch for you. I’ll tell anyone who asks that you were a fantastic lay, with a wink and a hint that it was a bit unnerving sleeping with someone prettier than me. Everyone will buy it. And that has nothing to do with anything I heard tonight.”

Cashmere takes a long time trying to understand. Of course he doesn’t want her now, but he’s saying he didn’t want her to begin with?

“I’ll do anything you want,” she assures him. She doesn’t want him, or the President, thinking she’s trying to get out of what’s expected of her.

“I know you would, honey. If you ever show up on my list, you can return the favor?”

“Okay.” She understands now. He doesn’t want her, or anyone on his list. He’s just doing what’s required of him, and he gets aroused because he has to, to do his job. If he can get out of it, he will.

She’s reminded of when she and Gloss were young, and she did him the favor of practicing with him in bed, even though neither was there by choice. They only both wanted to be selected to volunteer, more than anything.

So Finnick’s just helping her out, because he thinks they’re in the same boat, being punished for something unrelated to sex, and neither of them wanting the sex. He can't imagine what it's like to be her, damp after one touch, and seeking out sex for its own sake, rather than for the sake of his district.

Finnick’s wrong. Maybe it isn’t his fault he was given a list, but it is hers.

She’s going to call up Brutus when she’s done here, she decides, if he hasn't gone home. He may leave more bruises than anyone, but he never questions whether she wants him. He doesn’t ask difficult questions, or expect her to talk. He’s right, no one else is going to want her if they know who she really is.

Finnick certainly doesn’t.

* * *

The following year, Finnick makes his appearance in the Capitol only just before the seventy-third victor is crowned. Lucian is from District Two, so not a potential ally, but he'd been hoping for a District Three winner right up to the very end. He was on the train when the screen in his compartment showed the boy torn to pieces by mutts. Nonetheless, Finnick's here, and he has work to do.

Because the Games aren't officially over until Lucian leaves the Capitol, Finnick gets a suite on the fourth floor of the official facilities, where he can still be part of the first round of post-Games celebrations. He gets in a quick debriefing session with Mags, who’s about to leave, and then he heads downstairs.

Cashmere surprises him again by approaching him at the bar, where everyone is watching Caesar talk up the victor of this year's Hunger Games just before he appears on stage. Finnick allows himself to hope that everything's okay and that after last year's events, she's just identified him as someone she can talk to, even if he's from the wrong district.

That delusion passes after about two seconds of looking into her deadened eyes. He wonders briefly if she's been taking anything to dull the pain, but she glows with health otherwise. Only someone with reason to suspect something is wrong would notice that her lack of liveliness is anything other than disappointment at losing both her tributes.

"I didn't think you were coming." Cashmere's voice matches her eyes.

Shit. She's been waiting for him. All right, so he's on her list again this year. Probably by name this time, as a warning that last year's fudging of the rules won't be tolerated.

"Finnick, you old hound. Can't stay away from a party, can you?" Chaff comes up from behind and claps him on the shoulder. He has to use his stump, because his remaining hand is holding his glass.

"You know me." Finnick grins, tilting his head back in acknowledgment without taking his eyes from Cashmere. _Yes_ , he nods at her. She turns away from him, her question answered, but she makes no move to mingle. She just hovers passively a couple of feet away.

Chaff's booming voice has alerted the crowd to the presence of the newcomer. "Finnick?!" That's Johanna, making a beeline for him from across the bar.

He should have come earlier this year, but he couldn't. This is the first time Annie's agreed to let anyone near her when the Games are in progress. She hasn't had a good day in a month, but she's been letting him hold her and remind her where she is, that she's safe, that she escaped, and that she's not going back.

Finnick looks at his shoulder, where Chaff's stump had rested only seconds ago. When he was younger, he believed in appearances, and virtually everyone who won the Games was living life to the fullest and basking in the glory. Now he's twenty-two, and he knows the secret or flaunted pains of half the room. Chaff is probably the most honest of them all.

"Good to have you bac-" A loud crash interrupts Chaff. "Argh, sorry, man. Gotta go see about Haymitch."

"Early for him to be passing out," someone snickers. Someone who probably has worse demons and is better at hiding them. Mags can’t be certain, of course, but she found no indications that Haymitch is anything other than genuinely crippled by alcoholism.

No sooner is Chaff gone, than Johanna throws herself into Finnick's arms, completely unlike herself. Finnick laughs out loud. He can't believe anyone is falling for their supposed fling, but there are some days he can hardly believe anyone is still falling for his playboy act either.

"Are you still buying the painkillers?" Finnick whispers into her ear.

"No, that's what I was going to te-"

"Keep buying them," he says urgently. "Or they'll think of something worse."

Johanna pulls back, and she's angry and flustered now, but she knows he's right. She has to keep up the pretense. He holds out his hands, inviting her to take them, and she does, just to flesh out the play-acting convincingly. "Good for you," he says sincerely, under his breath, and he squeezes her hands. "I'll see you at the Victory Ball?"

The ball will be almost half a year from now, in the dead of winter, and he's already resigned to having to stay here this long to accomplish his mission. That's why he didn't come as mentor and delayed his visit as long as possible this year. Neither he nor Annie is happy about it, but she agrees that the revolution is speeding up and he needs to get his part ready. _If my biggest contribution is to not hold you back, then it will have been worth it. Don't worry about me, Finnick. I'll be here when you come home._

Johanna hesitates. "Maybe." It's evident that she wasn't planning to come back for the ball, but now she's having to consider it.

"I should have some more...items of interest...for you by then," Finnick says enticingly.

"We'll see," is all Johanna says, but he sees the wheels turning in her head, and Finnick thinks he's got her hooked on his line of curiosity. She's more passionate about resistance than anyone he's found outside of Four.

A sudden movement out of the corner of his eye catches Finnick's attention. It's Brutus, wrapping his arm possessively around Cashmere and pulling her away, with a quick glare directed at Finnick.

Finnick doesn't react—outwardly. Though Districts One and Two keep strictly to themselves, disdaining the other, "lesser" districts, District Four is on their radar. Brutus has been itching to pick a fight with Finnick for years, for no other reason than to prove himself against the youngest victor in the Games' history. Finnick has declined every opportunity, pretending not to notice. Not because he doesn't want to--he'd love to--but because it's not part of the plan.

 _You do not let your feelings get in the way of the mission_ , says Mags' voice in his memory every time.

The plan doesn't include Cashmere either, strictly speaking, but it does include netting as many of the younger victors as allies as he can. Breaking through the wall of isolation and getting into One and Two would be quite the triumph.

Cashmere's almost ten years older than he is, so not quite one of the younger ones, but she looks very vulnerable, and possibly ripe for sedition. Finnick keeps his eye on her and Brutus without seeming to, watching their body language more than the details.

The message Finnick gets from Cashmere's is that she's thoroughly cowed. More likely the type to snap suddenly and kill Brutus in his sleep than to stand up to him from day to day. She looks like she needs an ally as much as Finnick does, for her own reasons.

* * *

Cashmere walks back with Finnick to his suite. Normally she's more vivacious in a situation like this, flattering the man she's with, asking a lot of questions, and always directing the conversation back to him. But with Finnick, that's unnecessary. He knows she's here under duress, and he's just being kind to her. When she reaches for something authentic to say to him, some way of reciprocating the kindness, she finds only emptiness inside. Underneath the compulsion to please everyone, she has nothing and is nothing.

So she walks dumbly beside him. When he notices that she's staying as close as she can, he puts his arm steadyingly around her.

Once in his room, Cashmere stops moving once he leaves off guiding her. She simply stands where he puts her, automaton-like, and moves where he prompts her.

She has no conversational topics to offer. She has no idea how normal people behave, in bed or out of it, when they’re not performing. So without the need to seduce Finnick or deceive him, all Cashmere can do is give up the initiative to him.

Finnick starts by checking that she’s clean. She’s had her shots against disease and reproduction, of course, as has he, and she’s continued to limit her intake of alcohol and drugs. She shudders viscerally at the word ‘clean’, though. She’s the dirtiest person she knows, helpless to stay out of the bed of anyone who’ll have her.

He then offers her a drink, and she gratefully accepts, welcoming the safety of numbness.

After pouring a single glass of red wine, Finnick invites her over to the bed, and she sits on his lap again. It's apparently his preferred position. While she sips at the wine, he starts running his hands over her clothes, the best that District One has to offer. She’s wearing a light blue and gold gown, and a white satin slip underneath it.

Finnick unhooks the clasps of her gown, and he pours her another glass while she shrugs the garment off. When she reaches for her slip, though, he takes her hand. "Not just yet. I like to take my time, remember? We have all night."

During the second glass, Finnick nuzzles her hair and runs his fingers through her long golden curls. When she’s halfway through, he takes the glass from her, lets himself have a few sips, and hands it back for her to finish.

She starts crying for no reason at all.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, trying to get herself under control, but the embarrassment just makes it harder. “I do this all the time. It’s not you, it’s not anything, it’s me. I’m just, I’m not very...” Cashmere waves her hands, trying to put her deficiencies into words. “I’m a mess,” she concludes, cringing inside again. She’s never before fallen apart with someone on her list, because she's always had a script she could follow.

“Honey,” Finnick purrs, all soothing calmness, “tonight, in this room, you don’t have to pretend anything. Cry if you need to. No need to pretend you’re enjoying this if you’re not. And if you end up aroused, there’s no shame in it. Not here, not tonight.”

She sniffles. “If I just shut down completely?”

“That’s fine, darling. You don’t have to pretend to feel anything.”

It’s not going to be any fun for him if she gives in to the emptiness, but then, she reminds herself that unlike most of her clients, Finnick’s not here to have fun. He’s just doing her a favor. Finnick’s not messed up like she is. He tries to get out of sex when he can.

She knows she’s supposed to be pleasing him, but she lacks the strength of will to resist when he tells her it’s okay to shut down.

“I’ll do whatever you tell me.” She finally resorts to the phrase she’s most comfortable with.

Finnick is more than prepared to take the lead. “All I want from you is to sit here with me and relax as much as you can under the circumstances. You’re safe, and we’re going to take care of your list.”

For the longest time, Finnick just cuddles her close, nuzzling and caressing, but making no move to escalate this into sex. She waits, and waits, until finally he’s out-waited her and she surrenders. Someone is holding her and sweet-talking her, calling her sugar, dove, sweetheart, and angel, neither despising nor humiliating her. And that someone knows her history, or at least a fraction of it.

It’s bliss, if she just lets it be.

When she stops expecting what’s to come, the emptiness inside her turns to euphoria. She’ll never have this again, and she’s drinking it in like an oasis in the desert.

Cashmere doesn’t quite trust him enough to tell him the parts she’s sure will turn him away, but she trusts him enough to believe him when he says he doesn’t expect anything from her tonight. She doesn’t have to perform, and she doesn’t have to worry about reacting or not reacting.

Other clients have expected her to lie still and passive, letting them use her body, but this isn’t that. It takes her a minute to articulate the difference. They’re taking their own pleasure, whereas Finnick is tending to hers. Right now, for instance, he's not groping her thigh; he's stroking the very tips of his fingers over the bottom of her slip, giving her the glorious sensation of satin sliding against her skin.

The idea of someone trying to please _her_ is such unfamiliar ground that she gasps in momentary panic, but Finnick shushes her. His confidence is too compelling to resist. It’s too easy to sit here and bask in the sunlight of being wanted and adored. Even if no part of her understands what’s driving him, it only matters if she’s trying to think. She’s not trying any more.

An eternity passes before his hands even begin brushing her in ways that arouse her, and by then it’s only more of the same, because everything feels good and he’s only making it feel better.

She’s dripping when his fingers reach inside her, and everything about him, suave and self-assured, speaks of someone who both knows his way around a woman’s body and has been paying close attention to her just now. _No wonder he has a list_ flashes through her mind. She’s so high on arousal that the thought doesn’t even hurt.

The best part is that she doesn’t have to make any effort at all. If her breaths are coming closer together and her hips are jerking, that’s not something she’s doing, it’s something that’s happening to her.

His fingers bring her to orgasm, and then again, and then she’s just crying out each time and not counting.

Sated, Cashmere lies on the pillow and watches him finish himself off with the same hand, before it even occurs to her that she’s supposed to be doing that.

Emerging from her daze enough to summon words again, she asks uncertainly, "I did everything you wanted?"

"Everything and more," Finnick assures her. "Come here, sweetheart." She goes willingly into his arms, and he spoons her close.

The reverberations of the euphoria echo in her flesh. For a minute, she feels again like that girl who moved like a panther. Then it vanishes when she looks at Finnick with love, need, and a wanting that will never die, and she remembers who he is. And who she is. Finnick's been more kind than she could imagine, but he's not her rescuer.

Once he leaves, he never comes back. Everyone knows clinginess doesn’t work on him. If she ever wants to see him again, she has to go back to making herself very small inside. Brutus’ voice in her head reminds her that no one else would want her for long. She’s lucky to have Brutus, because he always lets her come back when she’s alone.

Look at Johanna. That’s Finnick’s type, quick of tongue and mind. She can hold someone’s attention, and she can afford to be hard to get. She knows she has something to offer besides her body.

Cashmere has none of that. All she can do is store up the memory of tonight and relive it the rest of her life, that moment when someone convincingly pretended to want her.

* * *

As dawn breaks through the window, Finnick lies in bed holding Cashmere while mentally arranging his schedule for the day. No sense in chatting with Lucian, not from what he's seen in his interviews. If the newest victor were District One, Finnick might try using Cashmere to sit the boy down for a little mentoring, but he has no contacts in District Two, and no way of getting anything through to Lucian that he would listen to.

So tomorrow—later today, rather—he has to abandon Cashmere again, as long as she keeps her shell up.

Feeling her huddle in his arms earlier as though she could crawl inside this haven and never leave, watching her break down into tears without being able to give a reason why...he learned more from her body language than from her words, which spoke only of her own shortcomings and the great good fortune of being wanted by someone like Brutus.

If she won't ask for help, and Finnick gave her every opportunity, he can't override her wishes, but he has his suspicions. Gang rape, bruises, and constant undermining of her self-confidence, until she believes everything is her fault and can only feel gratitude toward anyone who tolerates her. She's so deep in the only survival mode that she knows that she can't see any way out.

And rape—is he innocent of that himself? She didn't want to be here tonight, and he knew it, and he didn't try to get out of it. He can try to justify it by saying that he, he of all people, has no right to insist that selling her body isn't worth the life of whoever she's protecting. All he can do is hope that tonight qualified as sex, enough to make up for their non-performance last year. But he still knew why she was really here, in a way that Cinna never did when it was Finnick in a similar position.

He thinks Mags would understand, the mentor who sent an unwilling Annie into the arena, dragged her out on her Victory Tour, and took care of her until she was back on her feet.

Finnick wishes he could do the same thing for Cashmere that Mags did for him and Annie, and that he did for Johanna. Reach out, tell her she's not alone, and gain an ally in return. He would have liked her to believe him when he said it wasn't her fault. He would have liked to protect her.

_Remember going to Mags' room the night after you came out of the arena, asking her what to do to keep them from hurting you?_

_I've been protected._

Lost in these thoughts, Finnick finds himself drifting off, deeper than he usually does when he's sleeping in the Capitol. But Cashmere's not one of the vultures. He always has this shuddering feeling that if he lets himself fall asleep next to any of the socialites he beds, he'll wake up with his bones picked clean.

This woman's bones have been picked thoroughly, though, and she's warm and solid next to him. She fits comfortably into his arms, offering the illusion of safety to him in return. He brushes a last butterfly kiss over the back of her neck, and he joins her in sleep.

In the morning, even having decided that he has no choice but to leave her to her own devices, Finnick can't help himself. He has to reach out to her one last time.

“How much revenue do you need to collect this year?” Finnick asks while they eat. He got Cashmere to stay for brunch and take her time leaving, in an effort to leave her with one memory of him treating her like a human being and not his personal fucktoy. As one of his ex-lovers so charmingly put it. To his face.

As he had guessed and hoped, Cashmere's revenue isn't much, not by his standards. He's selling his body for a much higher price in gifts alone, never mind the secrets. It's no doubt because he's flaunting himself and milking his celebrity status for all it's worth, whereas she's working under duress, hiding in shame, and doing only what's required.

"I'm short on cash," Finnick tells her, "but if you let me know where you're staying, I'll get you something of equivalent value as soon as I can spare it.” Just like the salon, he can walk into a store that sells luxury items and get what he wants for free, because his custom is good for business. “Even if I'm on the wrong list, maybe they'll let it count."

The cash cop-out is a half truth. He has plenty, but none of it disposable. Everything's been accounted for at home.

"I remember, you said last year that you take your payment out in kind. I tried. They won't let me. I have to hand over the money when I leave for home."

"I'm sorry." Finnick sighs. "They're doing something different with everyone. I'll pawn it, then, shouldn't be hard. If they won't let you count it, just get yourself something nice."

Politeness would dictate a thank you at this point, but this situation is so far outside a normally functioning society that the rules don't apply. "Why are you doing this for me?" Johanna was hostile and suspicious at first when he reached out to her, Annie frightened, and Cashmere is just tired and confused.

_Because Mags saved my life and my sanity, and Cinna was kind, and there are some debts you can't pay back, only forward._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cashmere's story is the most depressing of this fic as well as the most loosely related to the rest. Both of these aspects get resolved in the sequel. I promise I'm not just torturing her for fun.


	8. Mags

Finnick hits the ground as soon as he steps into the Capitol hotel room. It's the first time Annie has seen him brought to his knees.  
  
"I can't. I can't do this any more." He buries his face in a plush armchair. "I can't go out there. Not tonight, I can't face it."  
  
"It's all right." Annie seats herself in the chair and moves his head to her lap. She strokes his hair while he babbles. "You don't have to."  
  
"I have to keep them separate. I can't let them touch like this. Not like this!"  
  
"It's all right." She has no idea what he's talking about, but she keeps stroking and murmuring soothing phrases and lets him cry himself out.  
  
Finally, Annie feels his body sag against the chair. The tension in his shoulders subsides into the trembling of release. He leans in closer, letting her keep petting his hair while running her hand up and down his back. The room is dark. Though her instinct is to turn on the light, she knows he prefers the privacy of darkness for his meltdown.  
  
"Sorry," Finnick gasps. "Sorry."  
  
"No, no," she hushes him. "You've done a wonderful job. You're allowed to fall apart once the crisis is over. Mags is going to be all right. And you're not handling it alone any more."  
  
"I don't know what to do."  
  
"Tonight? Tonight you're staying here with me. Have you eaten? Have you slept?"  
  
Finnick groans. "I've eaten. I haven't slept. I ate last night."  
  
"You ate _last night_?" It's nine pm. Not eating in the districts when you have no food is normal. Not eating in the Capitol when you're a victor requires explanation. "You haven't slept in five days?"  
  
"I don't know. I slept in a chair, I don't remember."  
  
The desperate tone of his voice, even more than his words, convinces Annie she needs to take charge. "All right, I'm ordering up some food, and we're both eating. Then we can talk."  
  
She orders them egg breakfasts, because she feels silly going all the way to the Capitol just to eat seafood--which probably isn't fresh anyway, now that she thinks of it--and most of the other items have names she doesn't recognize or prices that frankly scare her. Even so, the eggs are covered in a sauce that may be the best thing she's ever tasted, the sausages are carved into spirals, and in general the meal is both intimidatingly fancy and delicious enough that she starts wondering if it's worth trying dessert.  
  
Finnick first, though. Annie eats without thinking about anything but the food, telling herself she'll need the energy to solve problems, but when she looks up, Finnick is eating mechanically, almost frantically. She can tell from the look in his eyes that his mind is still revolving around his problems, and that he's not tasting anything.  
  
Once she's scraped the last of the sauce clean with the final fragments of her toast, Annie rises and moves to stand behind his chair. He drops his fork and leans back the moment she touches him. "I don't know what to do." Finnick sounds empty now, more than agitated.  
  
"We'll figure it out. Why don't you come tell me what happened? You can start from the beginning." If he's too tired, she'll let him sleep first. She suspects, though, that he needs to talk as much as she's dying to know the story. And something is clearly still unresolved in his mind.  
  
The story starts out with Finnick half-crouching on the sofa, sitting on his heels and rocking back and forth. He's too tired to pace and too tense, reliving it, to relax.  
  
"I heard Mags fall. I was at her house. I thought she'd hit her head, she wasn't really--" He makes a convoluted gesture, and Annie nods her understanding. " _With_ it, when I found her. I grabbed her and took her to the nearest healer--she weighs next to nothing, you know."  
  
Annie doesn't know, but she smiles. Probably everyone weighs next to nothing for Finnick.  
  
"Daraleen said it was a stroke, and they stabilized her, but they said they couldn't really do anything _for_ her. I knew the Capitol had these phenomenal resources, so I brought her here. I had to call up an old lover, and I had to sound like nothing was wrong. I had to do everything I could to get Mags here, as fast as I could, and under the radar. Now everyone knows I'm here, I've been trying to be mysterious about it while completely misleading everyone, I haven't had time to come up with a better cover story, and I don't know what to do."  
  
A flood of words is overflowing, and Finnick's green eyes are fixed on Annie as though she's his lifeline. She holds his hands and his gaze, trying to steady him.  
  
"I've had to go out carousing every night to avoid suspicion, and spend every day at Mags' bedside. Someone finally traced me to the hospital a couple days ago. Now there are rumors flying through the Capitol that I'm being treated for some disease, probably of an embarrassing nature, which I'm playing coy about. The number of demands on my time every night nonetheless is nothing short of _astounding_ \--"  
  
Annie's eyes have been getting wider during this recitation. Truly, she had no idea. Despite the urgency, she can't help being amused. Probably because she knows Mags will get through this now. It's Finnick she realizes she needs to worry about. "Maybe they're hoping to confirm or deny these rumors?"  
  
He's shaking his head in bafflement. "I don't even know. It might be news to them that you can't see spirochetes--anyway, I don't care, they can say what they want about me. I just don't want an army of cameras descending on Mags. But I can't let whatever story I come up with ruin everything I've worked for here, either. I've already acted entirely out of character by coming here out of season in the first place, and then in hooking up with someone I'd already discarded, which I've never done, and she's, I don't know, planning our wedding or something--why are you laughing?"  
  
"I'm sorry." Annie presses her hands to her mouth, trying to physically wipe the smile away. "I know it's more serious than it sounds. I shouldn't be laughing. These people, they're like..." She's at a loss for words to describe the absurdity.  
  
"They're jackals, Annie, and they will eat Mags alive if I let them."  
  
"So you're letting them eat you instead. Come here." She opens her arms, and Finnick crawls gratefully into them. "My poor boy. You've done amazingly. You saved Mags."  
  
"I'm so glad you're here." He lies half-slumped against her, letting her hold him but making sure she doesn't take his full weight.  
  
Annie holds him with her arms wrapped around him and her head bent close over his. "None of us had the faintest idea why Mags had disappeared, and finally when we heard from the healers that you'd taken her to the Capitol, we caught the first train in. Every one of us." All the victors, and two of the older trainees who were planning to volunteer next year and were especially fond of Mags. Annie threw up in the sink on the way there, trapped in reliving her journey to the arena three years ago, but she came for Mags.  
  
"I didn't have time to wait for a train. I knew someone who had a private hovercraft-"  
  
As so often at Finnick's stories of the Capitol, Annie's mind boggles. The two trainees had to have their tickets to the Capitol paid by the victors, because there was no way anyone in the districts could afford even a basic seat on a train, much less the necessary bribe to overlook unauthorized entry. And Finnick knows someone with a personal hovercraft available on short notice.  
  
"But I had to spend the night at her place as soon as I dropped Mags off, and you know I can never fall asleep with anyone I don't trust. Normally I'd have a hotel, stay out all night, and crash during the day, but I couldn't get away for a minute. I may have nodded off here and there in the waiting room, but as soon as visiting hours started each morning, I've been in there talking to her doctors and nurses and therapists, and then talking to her once she woke up, making sure she's not alone, helping her with her treatment, trying to translate her wishes to the staff..."  
  
"Ssh, you're here now." Annie kisses the top of his head, over and over. "You can sleep with me tonight. I'll stay with her tomorrow." After all the visitors from District Four had left, letting Mags fall asleep again, Finnick had asked Annie to wait a bit. She'd imagined on the train that he would take care of everything once she got there, but instead, twenty minutes later, she found herself on the street, following his directions to a discreet, not very expensive ( _not very expensive, he says_!) hotel so she could book them a room. Just like getting on the train, she'd done it, because other people were depending on her. Even though in a million years she'd never have set foot in the Capitol for herself, not even for mandatory annual appearances.  
  
"They don't know if she'll regain her speech. They said since I brought her so quickly, they were able to repair much of the damage to the limbs, and she should make a full recovery physically. Something they would never have been able to do at home. Daraleen says she couldn't even imagine, when I called to thank her. But they just don't know enough about how language works to do the same thing. They didn't dare touch those parts of her brain."  
  
"She'll be all right," Annie assures him. "She looked pretty with it. She recognized me, and everyone. She was glad we were there, and I could tell she was glad _you_ were there."  
  
"Yeah, she's--they put her through a full battery of what they called cognition tests, and they say she's mostly okay in terms of understanding, even if she can't talk. A few things."  
  
"Like what?" This is the first Annie's heard of any difficulties, and it makes her nervous that the situation may be worse than she realized.  
  
"Like mostly she understands what you're saying and can indicate a correct response somehow, even if not with words. Maybe by pointing at a picture. But if the sentence is complicated enough, you can trip her up. Trick her into giving the wrong answer. Annie, I will _not_ let them pick her apart on camera."  
  
"You are so brave." Annie doesn't have any answers to give him, so all she can do is reassure him. "You're going to think up a story that explains everything, and we're going to take Mags home, and everything's going to be all right." Something occurs to her. "If you need me to back any story you come up with, just let me know what to say."  
  
"I don't want them picking you apart on camera either," Finnick mutters, but mostly to himself. "Thank you, Annie. I promise to let you know if it comes to that." He sighs. By now he's gone completely limp in her arms. "I can't think of anything tonight. I'll think of something tomorrow."  
  
"I'd try to help, but I don't know Capitol intrigue. Everything here is so different." Annie wants to help, badly, but she doesn't have the slightest confidence when she's out of her depth like this. So she passes her first idea off as their usual Capitol mockery, making her inflections shallow and flirtatious. "Should I act jealous?"  
  
She's on uncertain ground, because of the uncharacteristic way he reacted to her humor earlier. This time, though, he starts laughing, until finally the tears run down his face. This is her Finnick, the one who laughs his way through danger, fear, and loss.  
  
"Oh, Annie," he says between gasps. "I don't know how we're going to tie all the pieces together, but you coming here may just have saved the day. That could be the perfect answer."  
  
Now that she knows everything's going to work out, she wants to get into the spirit with him. "Jealous _and_ pregnant. And claiming it's yours."  
  
"I panicked when you announced it and ran away. We'll let them figure out how the hospital fits in. Half the secret to, well, secrets is letting your audience fill in the blanks with whatever answer they find most convincing."  
  
"Then I showed up to drag my no-good boyfriend out of the gutter and back home. Wait, would we have to get married for the story to hold together?"  
  
"Nah, I can always deny it vehemently. Claim you were just trying to lure me back. There'll be a rash of it here next year, but nothing I can't live with."  
  
"Oh, Finnick, your life." Annie starts laughing, and she hugs him tightly.  
  
"That's why I can't, Annie." Finnick's voice changes, and she sees that now the tears of laughter are pure grief. "That's what's killing me. I can go without sleep, I can go without food--hell, that's what I trained for. I'd still be going without food if I hadn't played the Games and won. But I can't let my two lives seep together like this. I've stayed sane by keeping the drama, the parties, the clothes, the vomiting twice a meal, the Caesar appearances, and the intrigue totally separate from you, Mags, and the twenty hours a week I put in on shipboard so they still know me in District Four and don't see me as more of a defector than they have to.  
  
"I had to stand in the room where Mags was sedated and put on my most affected accent to ask an old lover if I could get her hovercraft in Four so I could fly it to the Capitol and surprise her. Then I had to drop Mags off at the hospital and go flirtatiously avoid answering questions about why I'm here, to someone who really wants to hear that I'm madly in love with her and couldn't live without her, all the while wondering if Mags is going to make it and still be herself even if she does wake up. And every night since then, this playful aura of mystery. Now you're here, and I'm pulled in half."  
  
_Aaahh._ That makes a lot of sense. Even more sense than Finnick falling apart because his mentor had a stroke. Not that she would blame him, but she's never seen him anything but outwardly in control of the situation. "Ssh, it'll be all right. I have one word for you."  
  
"Tomorrow?" he mumbles.  
  
"That too. _Allies._ "  
  
"Us against the Capitol?"  
  
"Always. We'll figure something out. Together. Tomorrow. And tomorrow I'm going to sit with Mags and tell her all about this amazing job you've been doing for her, diverting the cameras and the jackals."  
  
Finnick smiles through the tears. "I did the same for you once, you know."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"During your Victory Tour. Mags said she couldn't save you from the mandatory appearances, but she didn't want you tormented by more questions than we could help. So even though it wasn't my turn to act as mentor that year, she asked me to come along during the Tour, to basically do just that: create diversions for the cameras. We made up some story about it being her first chance to show me a Victory Tour from a mentor's perspective."  
  
"Really? That was why you were there?" Annie had been so out of it, not talking to anyone, sometimes even when asked direct questions, that she barely remembered Finnick in the blur of those days.  
  
"I couldn't believe it when Mags asked me. Finally, I said to her, something I can do!"  
  
"When it comes to looking pretty for the cameras, you're our boy."  
  
"I had to pretend I was doing it because I'm a complete glory hound, not because..."  
  
"Because I was a wreck," Annie finishes.  
  
"Because we were trying to shelter you from the jackals," Finnick corrects, more kindly.  
  
"Well, it's good to know that you have so much experience. Mags is in excellent hands."  
  
"She is," Finnick says seriously. "As bad as the Capitol's social scene is, I do trust her caretakers. I don't think I could stand it if I didn't."  
  
"There, you see, you've done everything you needed to do. The rest can wait until tomorrow. Come to bed."  
  
Annie's half expecting Finnick to need her body to drown everything else out, and fully determined to offer him whatever comfort he wants to take, but he was serious about not being able to merge his worlds. She holds him while he nuzzles her and runs his hands through her hair, and from the quiet sounds of relief he's making, she can tell he's relishing, almost wallowing in, the fact that he trusts her. He can sleep here, with nothing expected of him.  
  
Under other circumstances, she might be disappointed, but after the stresses of today, she's as tired as Finnick and badly wants to sleep. As messed up as the situation is that's brought them both here, it's actually comforting to know they're on the same page.  
  
"You're home," she whispers when she realizes this. “There are two of us."

“Thank you for making me laugh,” Finnick whispers back. “I needed that. I needed you.”

* * *

Finnick is sitting at a small, round table in a cafe, sipping coffee, when Johanna walks by. She stops, and stares at him.  
  
"I've been hearing the most extraordinary rumors about why you're here."  
  
"They're all true," Finnick assures her. "Especially the contradictory ones. But I've heard no rumors why you're here." In fact, until now he didn't even know she was.  
  
Johanna slides into the chair opposite him.  
  
"Then it seems I have a secret, and you have a secret, but we don't know if they're of equal value."  
  
Most of his relationship with Johanna is like this: wanting to trust each other, but not quite daring. So they dance around each other with words, like two fencers circling, looking for either an opening or a sign that they can put down their swords.  
  
Coming from different districts makes it hard, but so far, they've both shown signs of wanting to proceed at this cautious pace.  
  
"Intrigue?" she guesses, starting their game of (roughly) twenty questions.  
  
"Not intrigue."  
  
"Planning ahead?" Their code for the revolution that they’re working toward. There are people with whom Finnick is more explicit about his subversive activities, but Johanna is not--yet--one of them. He's hoping they'll get there, though.  
  
"Nope, entirely reacting to the past."  
  
"Hmm." Johanna ponders. "That was a clue. Harnessing resources that you don't have at home?"  
  
"Warmer."  
  
"Ooh, third try." She looks pleased with herself.  
  
"And you, any of those three?" Finnick prompts.  
  
She has to think about it. "Not really. Mostly I'm not supposed to be here, and I don't like being told what to do, so here I am."  
  
She's hiding something. Finnick steps carefully. "Well, people who don't like being told what to do are often prone to planning ahead. As for me," he says, offering his secret first, "Mags."  
  
Johanna blinks. "Mags what? Mags asked you to come here?"  
  
Her confusion seems genuine, but Finnick hasn't lived this long by not wondering how someone who supposedly doesn't know why he's here has somehow ended up in the same cafe on the same morning, out of all that the giant Capitol city has to offer.  
  
"Mags needed some medical supplies. She's getting on in years."  
  
"Ah. And smuggling supplies out is less likely to be overlooked than coming here for frivolous reasons."  
  
"Well, certainly. If word got out that their beloved victors are not receiving adequate medical treatment in the districts..."  
  
"Can't have that," Johanna agrees. "Well, I can't offer you any secrets of comparable worth as to why I'm in the Capitol in the first place. But I can tell you what brings me to have breakfast here this morning. Which if you have half the sense you don’t want anyone to think you do, you've been wondering."  
  
Finnick nods shortly, mind racing ahead. Damn, she's a fine actress. No matter how much he thinks he knows that and even relies on it, it always catches him by surprise.  
  
"I heard you were in town, so I stopped by to give you a warning. If I can trace you to this building, so can everyone else. If I were you, and I wanted to keep my purpose here a secret, I'd get Mags' medical supplies out and I'd do it now."  
  
Supplies he could have sent home a long time ago and stayed on himself for fun. There's no reason for her to be worrying about supplies. Therefore, she knows Mags is in a hospital two blocks away. And if that's the case...she's right, the secret is out. Then it's only a matter of time before Mags is officially questioned about her presence, and before it becomes clear she can't answer the questions. Better to get her home, let her complete her recovery, and let the announcement be made in such a way that it's not news. Just another old woman having a stroke.  
  
Finnick rises abruptly, abandoning his coffee and Johanna. If Annie can take care of the train, he can deal with the hospital, or maybe she'd prefer-  
  
"Finnick." Johanna calls him back. She gestures with her head toward his chair, indicating he should take his seat again. "I just remembered. I do have something for you. A secret of equal worth, even if not about what brings me to the Capitol."  
  
Curious, and because he wants to foster their tentative friendship, Finnick comes back and sits down. He looks questioningly across the table at her.  
  
Johanna looks grim. Whatever she's about to say, she's not finding easy. "On my first day in the Capitol, before the Games, my mentor was—let's just say, in no shape to be getting out of bed first thing in the morning." Hung over, Finnick translates. "But I wanted to get started on training early. I found my way down to the first floor, because it's not like that's hard. But after that, for some reason I thought the training room was 12A, and it was A-12. I was wandering up and down the halls not wanting to ask anyone. Not wanting to look stupid, and not trusting anyone from another district to tell me the truth anyway. Mags noticed and pointed me in the right direction." Johanna pauses. "She didn't have to do that," she concludes defiantly, as though Finnick had challenged her.  
  
"She would," Finnick says, melancholy. "You didn't want to be there."  
  
"I ended up killing your tribute!" Johanna protests.  
  
Finnick shrugs. "I wish Conch were alive. I'm glad you're alive. It's the rules of the game that put us all in this position. Mags is...you know, in her day they didn't have Careers. They had rebels' children who'd been trained to survive, even fight, in an actual war. I think she, more than anyone, is not going to hold it against you that you were reaped against your will. Nor that you stayed alive."  
  
"Well." Now Johanna rises. "Tell her to stay alive, all right?"  
  


* * *

  
The train ride back is surprisingly quiet and peaceful, considering the panic in which the journey to the Capitol began. It's not especially fancy, but they have a private compartment. Just Mags, Finnick, and Annie.  
  
Mags has spent a lot of time patting Finnick's hand and smiling at him, basically trying to get him to calm the hell down. He's still in the throes of his urgent need to solve every problem, and here he has no problems to solve. Mags is slowly drifting off, tucked into a corner. On her left, Annie is sitting quietly, holding the basket Mags has been weaving of brightly colored wool.  
  
Looming over them, Finnick watches Mags' eyes close. "They say it's normal that she tires so easily."  
  
"So they told me," Annie confirmed. She holds the beginnings of the basket out to him. "Here, work on this. It'll give you something to do besides fret."  
  
"I'll have you know I'm a very talented fretter. I can fret _and_ weave at the same time." Nonetheless, Finnick reaches out to take it from her.  
  
Annie pats the bench next to her, and Finnick joins her and Mags, half reluctant and half grateful.  
  
They sit like this, Annie flanked by Mags and Finnick, for some time. Mags dozes, Finnick weaves, and Annie rests her hand on Finnick's leg, with an occasional reassuring pat. They converse quietly.  
  
"I've got my old room at her place," Finnick informs Annie, "and I'm moving back in and helping her out until she's back on her feet."  
  
"So am I. I already told her so. She seemed happy."  
  
Finnick smiles. "So it'll be the three of us when we get home."  
  
"Allies," Annie agrees.  
  
"I was thinking family."  
  
The only family Annie remembers is the one that took her in out of obligation, treated her as a burden, and constantly reminded her to be grateful.  
  
To be fair, the first ally she had was beheaded in front of her eyes, moments after she accidentally betrayed him. She's chosen her own allies since then, and things have gone better. Maybe it's time to start over and build her own family.  
  
In wordless answer, too choked up to speak, she puts her arm around Finnick's shoulders and squeezes.

Mags chooses that moment to make a sound deep in her throat. Finnick jerks and looks over at her, but she's only smiling at them, awake again and happy. He smiles back and reaches across Annie to take Mags' hand. Family.  
  
"Forgot to tell you, Johanna Mason sends her love."  
  
Both Finnick and Annie are reassured when Mags narrows her eyes skeptically. She's got her wits about her still.  
  
"No," Finnick laughs, "she'd rather die than say that. But I talked to her, and I'm saying it."  
  
Mags chuckles and indicates her thanks. Then she remembers something, opens her mouth, and looks frustrated when only gibberish comes out.

Finnick instantly shifts off the bench and onto his knees. Kneeling in front of Annie and facing Mags in the corner, he holds both of Mags' hands. "What is it? What do you need?"

Annie watches closely as Mags just sighs and shakes her head, weary. "She's all right. She doesn't need anything."

"How can you know that?" Finnick demands. This is the intensity that used to frighten Annie, before she came to know him, and then to trust him. It's not frightening Mags, but it is tiring for her, Annie can tell.

Annie touches Finnick's shoulder and holds it reassuringly. "Look at her body language. She wants to chat with us, and she can't." Annie turns to Mags, smiling. "If you feel up to charades or twenty questions, we'll play and it'll be fun. Otherwise, relax and don't worry about anything. We're here, I'm keeping Finnick calm, and everything's going to be okay."

Finnick tries to give a loudly put-upon sigh, but he's too ready to laugh at himself to pull it off. Mags touches Annie's cheek in gratitude and then looks at Finnick, still kneeling at her feet.

He raises his hands instantly in surrender. "All right! Annie's the one being helpful here, I get the message. I know that look, Mags." Reluctantly, he backs off and returns to his seat. Annie can see what it costs him, and if she can, so can Mags.

Mags begins signing. Annie wants to protect them both, keep Mags from overexerting herself and Finnick from worrying himself sick, and right now those two needs are at odds. She decides just to keep an eye on Mags, and trust her to stop when she needs to. Her speech loss is hardest on her, as much as Finnick has made it all about him, and maybe her need to communicate is overriding her need to rest.

Finnick, meanwhile, has made out "wheelchair" and gotten an affirmative.

"Sure, we'll get you one as soon as we get home—what do you mean, no?"

Mags is shaking her head definitely.

"You _don't_ want a wheelchair," Finnick translates.

She thumps her cane where it's propped against the table beside her.

"Okay. You want to keep your cane and not use a wheelchair. That's fine. No one's going to force you into one."

Annie watches Mags. Her eyes are narrowed in concentration, like she's working out a plan for what to try next. "I think she wanted to say something different, but you went up the wrong tree," Annie guesses. "Mags?"

Mags gestures at Annie, shaking her head 'yes.’

Now Finnick just looks confused. "Okay, something different about a wheelchair, that isn't about you getting one or not getting one. Yes? Okay. Give us something else to go on, then."

Now Mags points at Annie again. Then again, with emphasis, when everyone stares at her in incomprehension.

"'Wheelchair', 'Annie'," Finnick tells her. "That's what I've got so far, Mags. Am I in the right tree?"

He is. He turns to the Annie in question. "You got anything?"

Annie's trying to think. Finnick wheeled Mags out onto the street that morning, due to regulations, but once they were off hospital grounds, Mags insisted on walking on her own. Annie walked alongside them, but that was all. She can't think of anything eventful that happened during the brief ride.

Mags is concentrating again. Maybe it's good for her, will help her recover her faculties? Annie doesn't know.

"Four...District Four? Home? No, just District Four? And all three of us. Okay..."

Something is tugging at Annie's memory. "District Four victors?"

Yes.

The light goes on in Annie's head. "Octavius!" Octavius, who's been in a wheelchair since winning his Games.

Mags beams at her like a student who's worked out the solution to a difficult puzzle.

Annie smiles broadly back at Mags. "Did Donn tell you?"

He did.

"Yeah, I kind of made Octavius come," Annie explains.

Finnick looks astonished and delighted. "This I have to hear!"

Mags sinks back into her corner, relaxing. She wanted to hear this story too, and now she's going to.

"Well, it was just that everyone was coming, even a couple of the kids. But Octavius was grumbling that unless we're all neurosurgeons, he didn't see the point, and he wasn't going. You know, if he'd come straight out and said he didn't feel up to it, I of all people...But no, he was making it difficult for everyone, so I marched over and told him exactly what I proposed to do, which was drug myself half sensible, sit near the washroom in case I needed to throw up, and not count on being able to eat anything until I got here. And if I could do all that, the least he could do was man up and admit that you're the cornerstone of District Four. And then I guess he decided to come."

A large part of it, which Annie won't admit, is that she had secretly been trying to think up excuses to get out of going and feeling ashamed of herself. When she saw her own fears reflected on someone else's face, it pushed her over the edge. Being bossy with Octavius allowed her to put some of her anxiety at bay and go through with this. She still remembers Mags taking the brunt of her younger self's anger at the Capitol and all the horrors she was put through, and she’ll never forget Mags' unending patience and firmness in guiding her away from self-destruction toward reclaiming her life. If she can sit on this train at all, book hotels, talk to doctors, and comfort Finnick, it's thanks to Mags.

It obviously meant a lot to Mags to have everyone show up, and most of all those for whom it wasn't easy. Mags hugs her in thanks, and Annie holds her for a minute in a reversal of their roles.

"Annie?" Finnick pushes some of the hair that's fallen forward over her shoulder back. "You hanging in there?"

"Well..." Now they're in a circle of everyone having to worry about everyone else. Annie's too tired to try to balance all their competing needs. "If you're looking for someone to fuss over, I'm right here."

At once, Finnick envelops her in his arms as she had him the other night. Only, because he's so much taller, she can just lean her head against his chest from where she's sitting. "You've been unbelievably supportive," he tells her. "Indispensable."

"We're lucky I was having a good day when we got the news. But I'm going to have a few bad ones when I get home."

On a bad day, she can't stand to be touched, but on a day like this, being held is the best thing in the world. Sitting between Mags and Finnick on the way home, knowing that Mags is still with them, is infinitely better than coming to the Capitol, alone with a squabbling pack of Careers, dreading the unknown future. "That's all right," Finnick tells her. He sounds unhappy, but he knows by now how it goes. "We'll be home, and there'll be three of us. You can take some time off to rest. You look tired."

Annie takes a deep breath. "You're exhausting Mags. And it's exhausting me to try to deflect your intensity." She feels him flinch, and Mags too on her other side. Mags catches Finnick's eye, and a long look passes between them. She so clearly knows exactly what she needs to say to reach him, and she can't. All she can do is try to get him to piece together what she would say in a situation like this. They've known each other so long that sometimes Annie feels like the outsider.

In Finnick's eyes is a hurt and vulnerable look, asking Mags if it's true. She seems to be saying yes and no, and something else that Annie can't read.

Annie tries to come up with some way to soften her words without denying them. Because Mags never hesitated to set boundaries. "That's not a criticism. Acting fast and not stopping to breathe until it was over saved her life. But it is over."

"Annie?" Finnick's still looking at Mags as though if he listens hard enough, he can hear what she can't say. But it's Annie he's holding. "You know how your Games are over, but in your head you're still in the arena? In my head, Mags is still falling, and I have to catch her. I know that one of these days I won't be able to...but it's not going to be because I didn't do everything I could."

"You're the one I want around in a crisis," Annie promises him. "Forever and always, whatever happens, you're the one I want at my side. She's glad you were in the house when she fell, glad you were there when she woke up in the hospital, and glad you stayed. I could see it the moment I got there, because she felt the same way I would. But right now, if you need someone to catch, catch me."

* * *

Having walked all the way from the station, Mags takes one look at the stairs leading to her bedroom and shakes her head. She knows Finnick, who's hovering about half an inch away, would take her up in a flash, but unless she wants him hovering every second of her recovery, she needs some modicum of independence. She heads instead for the living room.

Finnick is firing a million questions at her about what she wants and how she wants it. Annie is looking dead on her feet. Mags is too tired to sign "Calm down" or "Get some sleep," so she ignores them both and makes to lie down on the bare couch, hoping they sort it out themselves.

A pillow and blanket appear in what must be record time for flying up and down stairs. It's not until Finnick's spreading them out that she remembers doing the same for him, some fifteen years ago. Her eyes moisten, and she hides them in the pillow before he can assume the worst about her condition.

But it turns out he's thinking along the same lines. His hand closes for a moment around her wrist. "Remember?" She nods, and even with her eyes closed, she's convinced she can feel his smile radiating.

"Annie's upstairs resting. I'll be right here if you need anything."

Still without opening her eyes, Mags points upward firmly.

"You want Annie?"

Then she jabs him in the chest with her finger, and points upstairs.

"You want me to go get Annie!" But his voice is laden with humor. "All right, I'll stop playing dumb. But I'll come downstairs if I hear a noise."

For all that, she manages to get some food in peace when she wakes up later. Finnick must be exhausted.

It gives her the chance to sit and think. About where she wants to go from here, for one. Mentoring tributes is going to be hard. Maybe impossible, but Annie's not up to it yet, and the Gamemakers will insist on having a female mentor as long as there's one living. Mags may still have to go, if only as a figurehead, and count on her partner—Donn or Finnick—to do the talking.

Going to the Capitol a few days ago was obviously brutal on Annie, and anything associated with the Hunger Games turns her into a wreck. She's consistently refused to so much as watch the Games from home. But she did get on the train when Mags needed her. It might be worth seeing if Annie can start coming to the Games this year, a few months from now, without being expected to take an active role, in hopes of gradually increasing her participation over the years. Maybe if both Mags and Finnick go with her, it'll be doable. It will have been four years since Annie's Games.

But coming up with a way to communicate all that is going to be painful. Mags will have to get Finnick alone and make sure he gets exactly on the same page with her before they propose this plan to Annie.

And before Mags can do that, she needs to make sure she's still running her own life. Finnick will start making all her decisions if she doesn't start dictating orders to him soon. But she's a strategist, and she knows her boy. He's a force of nature, but all she has to do is organize his energy into constructive channels.

By the time he comes down, she has a plan.

* * *

“Mags!” Finnick scolds, laughing, when he sees her sitting at the table with the crumbs of her toast. “I was going to surprise you with waffles. You beat me here. Yes, I was tired,” he adds in response to her signing.

Taking her empty plate, he drops it in the sink while poking his head inside the fridge. “Well, the cream went bad while we were in the Capitol, and you have no blueberries. Looks like I'll be making a quick run for brunch. You need anything while I'm out?”

Ravenous, Finnick grabs whatever odds and ends he finds for himself, and he eats them at the table while watching Mags sign at him. Around a mouthful of food, he tries putting her meaning into words and watches for relief or frustration at his guesses. They quickly come up with some signs for common objects and people, which they reuse and which dramatically speed up the pace of conversation, but abstractions like “independence” are harder. He only gets that one because he knows what's important to her.

“I know, Mags, I'll be your ally. I won't let you end up wrapped in cotton wool. You're like me: you'll die if you stop moving.”

Mags holds out her hand, and they shake on it. Finnick, having gotten the edge off his hunger, doesn't let go. Instead, he comes around to stand behind her chair and wrap his arms around her.

He automatically starts to explain, but cuts himself off when he realizes he doesn't need to. “It's good to have you back,” he whispers instead.

He's holding her when Annie comes downstairs. “What's for breakfast? Do I get breakfast in bed?” she teases.

“If you'd stayed in bed longer, you would have gotten waffles and a Finnick for breakfast,” he teases back. “I'll have to go out for the waffles, though. I can pick up anything you need from your house today.”

“Oh, good, I'll give you a list.” Then she frowns slightly when she sees Finnick still hasn't let go of Mags. “Are you hovering?”

Mags shakes her head definitely.

“Am I being too hard on him?” Annie asks with gentle humor, smiling when Mags holds up her thumb and forefinger close together. “A little bit? Okay, I'll ease up.”

“I'm not hovering.” Finnick tries to explain. “Think of it as an eight-day adrenaline rush.”

“All right,” Annie agrees. “I know that about you. There are certain things your body needs convincing of.”

Finnick nods. “My eyes and brain may know that she's here and she's all right, but I won't come down from alert mode until my body believes it. I think it's related to something Rudder noticed at the academy: he could explain technique until he was blue in the face, but I learned a lot faster when he simply had someone attack me and told me to figure it out. And I could feel my _body_ figuring it out, how to move, how to use the terrain to my advantage, how to close in on an opening in my opponent's defense...and I suspect that's also why I could never teach.”

Annie muses, “I always saw you as very touchy-feely, and I thought maybe it was because Mags was so affectionate with you.”

“It is affection, sometimes, but sometimes it's just that my body is the way I learn things about the world.” Finnick is sure it's why he's good at the things he's good at: athletics, fighting, sex.

“So right now it's learning that Mags is home,” Annie concludes, “and then it's going to make us breakfast.”

“That's the deal. Funny story: blueberry waffles are the reason Mags adopted me. Oh, she'll say it's because she had a soft spot for me, or she saw my potential, or I was sleeping in the rain, or something, but actually she had ulterior motives that I learned about during the first Hunger Games after I moved in with her.”

Mags is choking with laughter and making an “Oh my god, don't listen to him” motion.

“Oh no!” Annie exclaims in mock sympathy with her. “Now we only get to hear Finnick's side of every story.”

Finnick continues with his perfectly bland face. “Waffles with blueberries and cream have always been her comfort food, meaning food she wants when she doesn't feel up to cooking. So she had to adopt a willing victim to cook for her when she came home tired and depressed every year.”

“That's right,” Annie realizes, “you were only nine, and she had to go to the Capitol. Were you allowed to go with her?”

“Nah, but I was precocious. I had people I knew at the academy if I needed anything, and I'd been going to work, the academy, and school on my own before she adopted me, when my parents were trying to keep me from training and I was sleeping in alleys rather than go home. There might be many reasons I needed someone to take me in at that age, but being too irresponsible to focus on my goals was not one of them.”

“Fair enough. I'm sure you were fine for a couple weeks. We'll carry on with the waffle tradition, then. Bananas for mine, please, if they have any ripe.”

Everyone fills up on waffles and the fruit of their choice around noon, happy just to be together and out of the crisis. Finnick, still in disbelief that Annie and he are finally living in the same house, offers to carry her and her waffles upstairs about six times before she throws a blueberry at him.

“I'll let you know,” she informs him with a wink, “when it's time for breakfast or anything else in bed. But unless you need my help with something, I think I am going to go back up after we eat. The last few days have been...pretty terrible.”

Finnick shakes his head. “Mags is just going to put me to work. No need for you to do anything but rest, and let me know if you want anything. I'm glad you're here, Annie.”

She kisses him and gives Mags a quick hug before going upstairs, and then it's work time. Mags sits on the couch and Finnick kneels at her feet, because it's the only way his body can communicate the intensity of _I will do anything for you_.

“Do you want the bed brought downstairs? I can move whatever furniture you need, just let me know.”

Mags smiles her thanks. Then she stares at him for a long pause in the conversation, which he takes to mean she's introducing a new, very important topic. He sits back on his heels and gives her his full attention, prepared for anything.

She starts by pointing to her eye. Finnick lists off, “Eye, seeing, vision, looking, finding,” all to a series of headshakes, culminating in an emphatic hand gesture indicating that he's going down the wrong trail. He stops.

Mags concentrates hard, trying to come up with something to add to her message.

Thinking that it might be an abstraction, Finnick hazards, “Foresight, planning ahead,” only to be interrupted with an even firmer rejection. He falls silent then, waiting for more.

Then she puts her fist over her heart and clenches it, which is her sign for him, and she points to him. She tugs at a length of her hair, which is her sign for Annie, and points upstairs. Then she puts her finger to her eye again, and stares expectantly at him.

“You?” he guesses tentatively, then hangs his head at the frustration on her face. “Okay, but is it a person?”

Yes, he's on the right track, finally. He thinks over everyone important to Mags. Then he feels silly for not getting it sooner. “Pearleye.”

All this signing and guesswork to get one word.

Mags shares his impatience, but she perseveres. She barely has to make a jabbering motion with her hand before Finnick is already nodding, knowing that she wants to talk to Pearleye. “Today? Here?”

Yes and no. “You want to visit her, then?” He shudders at the thought of Mags making that journey in her current state, but he has to agree. Her inability to talk plus the surveillance bugs of this house will kill any chance of communication. “Yes, I'm sure she'll be glad to see you. You've been friends forever,” he adds for the benefit of the bugs. “I can go by and make sure she's home, ask her to be there at, say, four? I'll do that, then.”

Mags points at herself, and makes chaotic waving motions. Then at Finnick, and the precise jabbering motion again. “You want me there to translate your signs? Not that I'm especially fast at it, but-”

Her hand over her heart again.

“Yes, I lived with you for a long time. I know you. And I'll explain all about the stroke.”

Pearleye is unhappy but resigned when a mute Mags shows up at her door. She greets her old friend and mentor warmly with a double-handed handshake, and she tolerates Finnick's presence without a word. “Well, you had almost eighty good years, and you were preparing for this day. I don't think any of us expected this specifically, but it's no worse than if you died, and we'll carry on without you.”

Finnick sometimes wonders if Pearleye is especially blunt around him as a pointed snub toward the flippancy she despises from him, or if she's always like this.

They sit on her back porch. It's sheltered from view by a couple of morning glory-covered trellises, and it's far enough from any neighbors that they've often used it as a meeting place. Pearleye checks that all the windows of her house are closed, per their usual procedure, and they sit on her rocking bench and talk.

Once Finnick has summarized the events of the last few days, Mags gets right to business. She makes an extravagant handing over gesture.

Finnick doesn't want to translate, and Pearleye doesn't need him to. The transfer of power has just taken place. Pearleye is officially in charge of planning the revolution, and when it comes, she'll be in charge of strategy.

Finnick had been deluding himself that with some help, Mags could continue in her old role, but she's right. The time has come.

As she and Pearleye talk, Finnick occasionally helps translate, but he hears a lot of names from Pearleye that he doesn't recognize. It makes him realize that these two have been spending their lives solving problems that aren't even on his radar.

_Are you sure we can do this without you, Mags? What am I going to do without you? Who am I going to come to for advice?_

The sun sinks lower in the sky as Mags and Pearleye talk and Finnick listens, and the fog starts to crawl in. Though the cool breeze coming from the ocean is mild, Finnick still shivers.

He can tell when Mags begins to tire, but he doesn't hover, he doesn't, even though he has to remind himself of his promise. _She_ _sent me_ _into the arena at fourteen._

Mags decides when it's time for her and Finnick to leave. She flutters her hands, wanting to say something, but then gives up. It must be social, or she'd hang in there until she got through.

They say goodbye, and Pearleye looks at him sternly. “You're looking out for her?”

Taking umbrage at her scornful face, which hints at disbelief that he could do anything so responsible, Finnick smiles brightly. “I've moved in with her,” he answers, “but the best part is that now, every time she pokes me with her cane, I can retaliate by telling a story about her that she can't refute.”

He's rewarded with an annoyed look from Pearleye, and a poke from Mags. _Come on, we're leaving._ Finnick has to laugh at Mags, choosing that moment to wield her cane to show she's in on the joke.

As soon as they're out of sight from Pearleye's house, Mags faces Finnick with a raised eyebrow. He brushes off the question.

“Don't worry, she and I can work together, and I don't have to like her to take orders from her. But if you're asking me not to deliberately provoke her when she looks at me like that...you should have found someone else to cook your blueberry waffles.”

Mags makes a face as if to say, _I love you and I accept your flaws,_ and that's good enough for him.

* * *

They have to shuffle a lot of furniture around to make the first floor livable, but Finnick calls on Donn, and Rudder shows up without being asked. Annie's still rather overwhelmed by the events of the last week, so she stays upstairs in the room she and Finnick are sharing.

She's surprised to hear a knock, all the more so because she could have sworn it was preceded by the slow thump of a cane. "Annie?" Finnick pokes his head in. "Mags is going to sit in here with you while the place is in a shambles. She gave me thorough instructions this morning about where she wants everything, but we'll have her give a final once-over before we finish. Meanwhile, she said she wanted to join you in the peace and quiet."

Annie scoots over and makes room for Mags on the bed. They sit together, sharing a companionable silence, with Mags touching her occasionally, because it's the only form of communication she has for gratitude and friendship. Annie smiles understandingly back when Mags twines her fingers through her long brown hair.

"I know, my hair's a mess. I haven't even gotten out of my nightgown yet." She's not exactly afraid of the other victors any more, but neither does she feel comfortable wandering around making herself at home in someone else's house, while men she barely knows are turning it upside down. Especially not when she's still shaky inside from the Capitol trip.  
  
Mags mimes brushing it. Annie looks at her, surprised. "Sure, if you'd like to."

It's actually very relaxing, and somehow, it doesn't matter that this is what Mags did for her when she was nonfunctional immediately after her Games. It's so weird, what bothers her, and what doesn't. Maybe that's why they call it madness.

She starts talking, half to herself, under the soothing strokes of the brush. Mags is a very gentle listener, as always.

“I'm hoping I can do this, live with you and Finnick. I'm always tense around people, even the ones I trust, and it's exhausting. But I'd like to have a family again. I haven't been living alone by choice.

“I started going to visit my sister's family, did I tell you? I got Donn to take the ferry with me. It was really nice of him, because he doesn't know me well, and Grace lives pretty far. I wanted to ask Finnick—he's normally the one I rely on when I can't leave the house alone—but I just felt like the visit would turn into _What's it like being a living legend?_ and _What's it like dating a living legend?_ And while I completely support everything Finnick does and don't want him to change, I wanted the first time I met my sister's kids to be about meeting them, not about everyone being dazzled by the celebrity sitting next to me.”

Mags brushes away, supportive, not judging.

“Donn's been great,” Annie continues. “He comes not as a former victor, but as a guy who goes by 'Grampa' at home, and he's wonderful with her kids. The almost-two-year-old is just big enough to be running around knocking everything over, but the baby is so snuggly I never want to let go when it's time to leave. It makes me want children, although right now is not exactly a great time, I realize that. I'm still waiting to see if I can make a family work at all.

“I'm glad it's you and Finnick,” Annie says, turning to smile over her shoulder at Mags. “And I would like to bring Finnick to meet the extended family. I just need to work up the courage, or I guess the energy, to deal with that level of...intensity.”

Mags pats her shoulder in sympathy, and then points to the door. Annie's been having to talk over the shouted instructions, frequent banging, and occasional arguments coming from outside. "Do you want to go out there? Do you want me to fetch one of them?"

Mags shakes her head. Then she mimes what Annie can only interpret as complete chaos: frantic dragging and lifting and throwing and pointing and going in circles. All the while, mischief shines in her eyes while she asks Annie to catch on.

Gradually, her brilliance dawns on Annie. Laughing, she hugs her mentor spontaneously. "Mags, you're a genius. You're right, he needs to be kept busy. You told him to rearrange more than strictly necessary, didn't you? Didn't you?" she teases. "Every piece of furniture you could think of."

Mags beams with pride.

“Yes, I'll help you. I'll think of things for him to do. And if it gets to be too much, having us both here, just let me know. I'll put my foot down about moving out if it comes to that—you and I'll both put as many feet down as necessary."

Mags laughs and pats the bed beside Annie.

 _Stay_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. The next chapter just contains a timeline for reference.


	9. Chronology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since the story is written out of chronological order, I've included a chronology below. The Hunger Games take place in autumn. The Victory Ball takes place in late winter.
> 
> ETA: Uh, and there are now also 6,000+ words of author's notes in the comments, giving character backstories and comments on their interactions. What can I say? I love these characters.

  * **59th Hunger Games**
    * Cashmere (17) wins.
    * +7 months: Finnick moves in with Mags. 
  * **60th Hunger Games**
    * Gloss (18) wins. 
  * **65th Hunger Games**
    * Finnick (14) wins.
  * **70th Hunger Games**
    * Annie (16) wins.
  * **71st Hunger Games**
    * Johanna (18) wins.
    * Finnick and Annie begin their relationship.
    * Victory Ball: Finnick and Johanna meet.
  * **72nd Hunger Games**
    * Finnick's first encounter with Cashmere.
    * Finnick meets Dahlia.
    * +4 months: Johanna breaks her painkiller dependence. 
    * +6 months: Annie begins working with Mags.
  * **73rd Hunger Games**
    * Finnick's second encounter with Cashmere.
    * +1 month: Johanna starts working with the transportation crews.
    * +8 months: Mags has a stroke.




End file.
